


where your heart turns (and to what it clings)

by sansastarks



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Arranged Marriage, F/M, Fix-It, I'm no professional but don't worry I'm no d&d either, Mentions of dark dany, Mentions of past jonerice, Non-canon from Pit Scene on, Political Jon, Smut, Some Angst with a Happy Ending, jonsa, poor communication skills
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-31
Updated: 2020-03-14
Packaged: 2020-04-05 04:53:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19041523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sansastarks/pseuds/sansastarks
Summary: His face contorts. She cannot take it any longer. Sansa moves closer. “It was my idea, Jon. No one is forcing me, least of all you.”He whispers, “Sansa—"Her heart beats rapidly against her chest. She wraps her arms around him, pulling him close. She could sob as she gets to take in his scent and nearness again. “It’s alright, Jon. I promise. Please come back. Comehome.”-------------When Tyrion suggests Jon live out his life at the Wall, Sansa counters with a union that could benefit them all. As the North rebuilds, so do Jon and Sansa. Or:The One Where Sansa Just Wants Jon at Winterfell With Her.





	1. Sansa I

**Author's Note:**

> 1) If you follow my other stories, I would just like to say that this is not part three of my "Wish I Knew You" series, as you can probably see. I will be working on and posting that fic after I finish this. Thank you for your patience.
> 
> 2) Like many of you, I was upset with most of season 8, but the final episode especially. It's taken me a bit to work through that ending. But, I've decided to reject it for the purposes of my heart and this story! This is a reworking of the Dragon Pit scene and onwards. So yes the way Jon acted this season did happen in this world, but don't worry because his actions will actually get an _explanation_. I'm working with pol!jon on this, so I hope he isn't too off-brand.
> 
> 3) This chapter is longer than I ever anticipated. I really can't say how long each part will be, but I aim for 3k words usually. However, I don't want the next chapter to feel like you're being short-handed. So we'll see how this goes. I can't say how many chapters this will be, but I'm going for around 5. There's a lot of emotions that Jon and Sansa have to work through; actions need explaining, etc. This season (and part of last) felt like 'The Dany Show'. This fic is very much going to be 'The Jon and Sansa Show'. They are going to be the only POVs in this story. I just don't think I'm at the point where I could give decent work on other character's chapters. I also don't feel it's super necessary to this story as this is truly about Jonsa's relationship. This chapter features more plot and background because I felt it essential to explain where Sansa is at right now. I also felt like some character's needed more proper endings or send-offs.
> 
> 4) I could ramble more but I'll just do that on my Tumblr. I know there are many wonderful arranged marriage fics out there. (I'm a sucker for them!) Thank you for taking the time to read mine. Comments and kudos fuel me more than my Starbucks. Thank you! I'm gonna hit you hard with smut for the rest of this story!!!
> 
> 5) Disclaimer: I do not own anything related to the HBO series "Game of Thrones" or the book "A Song of Ice and Fire" by George R. R. Martin. Title credit to Charlotte Brontë's, "Jane Eyre".

The group shifts around in awkward silence, trying to process Tyrion Lannister’s words. _No greater story existed_ than her brother’s. Sansa tries to pull memories from the past of young Bran, but all she can recall is their shared love of knight stories and her mother’s growing impatience of his climbing everywhere. That boy— one day a king?

“The Lady of Winterfell has quite a remarkable story as well. In fact, all of House Stark does.”

Sansa’s gaze flits to Brienne; her eyes soften at the knight’s words.

“Well,” starts Tyrion. “That is true. We owe a great deal—an immeasurable amount to the Starks. But as I recall Lady Stark once saying, they are of the North and in the North they should stay. I believe Bran considers himself something different altogether, despite the name he holds.”

Sansa inclines her head. She glances at the lords and ladies, hunched over from exhaustion. Grey Worm’s eyes are narrow as he frowns at Tyrion, then her. Arya’s focus is now on her too. 

Her back straitens, mask in place, as she says, “Lord Tyrion’s words are… _kind_. I thank Ser Brienne for her gesture.” Sansa offers a small smile in the woman’s direction. “My family has faired better in the North. I was never going to be Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, as Cersei Lannister often said to me once my first betrothal was broke and a new one began.”

Tyrion grimaces. Dreadful memories of dinners with Cersei, Ser Meryn’s jabs, and Joffrey’s explosive tantrums fill their minds. Talks of sheep shifting and lemon cake platters and Shae’s laughter taunts them both. His tone is soft as he says, “You would have made a good queen, Sansa.”

He looks haggard. She imagines it’s similar to the look he sported when being detained as Joffrey’s murder. Her nails dig into the sides of her chair.

Bran intercedes before Sansa can offer a smart reply. Her little brother proclaims, “She will make a good queen still.”

Sam Tarly slumps even further in his chair, eyebrows furrowing. Edmure continues looking offended, put-out that no one fights harder for a Tully king. Lord Royce crinkles his face up in distaste. “Your grace, surely you don’t mean—“

He does not finish his sentence. When it is apparent Bran will not say anything, Royce adds, “You will not wed your own sister. You are not a Targaryen.”

Arya had been staring at the Unsullied commander, but her attention draws back to Lord Royce; an annoyed glare marring her face. 

Sansa could laugh at the absurdity. Of course Bran does not mean to marry her. There’s no point in it either, as they have just discussed. She is about to say as much, when Bran holds up his hand. “I do not. But as my sister has made clear, the North is free. They _will_ need a ruler.”

She’s been thinking it in her head. Littlefinger’s words haunting her the further she went south. Sansa reaches out, grasping Bran’s hand. She looks between her siblings. “Thank you. I love you little brother. If you say you will rebuild this realm then—then you will.”

Tyrion gulps, nodding between the lords and ladies. It is clear he wants to settle things between the council, before others get ideas. The Prince of Dorne leans forward to speak, when Tyrion interjects, “To King Bran of House Stark. Long may he reign!”

Sansa’s legs feel stiff as she stands. Her hand remains enclosed in Bran’s as Arya grabs his other. Her voice is stilted as she declares, “Long may he reign!”

Once the council members are sitting again, the Prince of Dorne does not hesitate to make his voice known this time. “The people of Dorne will remain as members of the six kingdoms… for now. We will expect a strong voice and presence in the capital if this alliance is to work.

Yara Greyjoy nods in agreement. 

“Of course, of course. My prince, we will make sure that this world is not as our fathers and brothers and uncles left it. We will do so together,” says Tyrion, quick to exude friendliness to the other lords and ladies.

Sansa frowns. “And what of Jon?”

“He is prisoner,” hisses Grey Worm. 

“He is a former _king_. He is Warden of the North. She was not our queen. We had declared ourselves an independent kingdom.”

Grey Worm’s chin juts out, hand tightening on his spear. 

Tyrion shakes his head. “I’m sure what Lady Sansa means is—“

Sansa glares at the man as Arya interrupts. “What my sister means is that Jon Snow is of the North. There are plenty of Northern men here who will fight if you execute him. If you do that, then my sister need only give the command.”

Sansa watches Tyrion wring his hands, still nervous amongst them. “Perhaps we should think on it for a night. After all, we do owe _some_ debt to Jon Snow.”

Grey Worm’s nostrils flare as he scowls even harder at the dwarf. Tyrion coughs, holding his hands up. “No. No— I mean regarding the Night King and everything beyond the Wall. He was trying to protect all of us— the living. I suppose he has since I was there with him, when he was still a boy. Jon Snow isn’t a threat any longer. He would never harm King Bran.”

“He’s a _Targaryen_. Anything is possible,” exclaims Edmure. 

Grey Worm shakes his head. “Jon Snow must pay.”

“Let us think on it. We are all weary from, well, everything anyways,” Tyrion says.

Everyone mumbles agreement, slowly rising. Davos grips Bran’s chair, pushing him back to the castle which will hold a Stark as monarch and not prisoner for the first time.

Sansa’s lips tremble. She misses her little brother, the good and rambunctious boy she grew up with. Still, she wants to protect this Bran from all harm. 

The last high lords and ladies leave the dragon pit, heals dragging from fatigue. There is no winner. 

Arya sighs beside her. “You know he’ll never let Jon go free.”

“Which _one_?”

“Grey Worm won’t stop demanding justice for _her_. Jon won’t get peace, won’t get home.”

Sansa frowns, glancing up at the sky. She despises this city. She had nightmare after nightmare on the journey. Her younger self haunting her. Licking her lips, she says, “We won’t let anything happen to him.”

“You’re right. I’m going to help take care of it. Do you trust me, sister?”

Her hands tremble. “You _know_ I do.”

Arya nods. “I will come back North. I’ll come home. I just have to see some things first—and finish things. And then, I’ll return because…” her sister drifts off. 

Arya is showing more emotion than she has in weeks; Sansa wants to pull her little sister close and cradle her against her chest as she knows Mother once did on the rare occasions Arya sought cuddles.

“It’s where I’m meant to be, but not yet. You’ll have to be the Stark in Winterfell. I know you’ll be fine.” _I love you_ , she seems to say.

Sansa wants to object. She can’t fuss over Arya forever though. “What shall I tell Jon?”

Arya smiles, her fingers massaging Needle’s pommel. “I’m going to see what’s West of Westeros.”

“I don’t know how to save him,” Sansa whispers, exasperated.

Arya frowns. “You’re the smartest person I know. You will figure it out, if you haven’t already. I won’t be far away either. I won’t let anyone harm either of you.”

Sansa’s lips turn up. Blinking, she gazes off at the remains of the Red Keep. The sea breeze feels like whispers and fears that nip at her cheeks. 

“I could never have imagined such praise from you when we were here last.”

“The last time we were here I never believed my sister would make a good queen.”

Sansa swallows. She had known it when she was younger. She had wondered at all the snide comments Arya would make to Robb and _Jon_ about Sansa’s capabilities. She had been snide right back though. 

Arya is staring up at her, her deep, dark eyes searching Sansa’s soul. “Arya—“

“I trust you Sansa, more than I ever have. I trust you more than I’ve allowed myself to trust others in a very long time. I know you will do whatever you have to in order to save Jon. To save us. After everything you both have said—everything I’ve heard— I want you _both_ to find happiness.” 

Sansa abandons restraint and pulls her sister close. She’s leaning down, her hair falling around both of them like a protective shield. Sansa’s voice is warm yet stern as she says, “I love you. Be careful.”

Arya pats her back as best she can, her boots wiggling as she pushes up on her toes even more. Her tone is sly, her breath cold, as she whispers in Sansa’s ear, “Have faith. It’s as you said, the _pack_ survives. That includes Jon.”

They disentangle. Two wolves prowling in a pit dragons once owned. 

“Goodbye for now, little sister.”

Arya’s hand once again rests on Needle. She bows, then turns on her heel and walks out of the pit with a determined gleam in her eyes. 

Sansa stares at her sister’s retreating figure until she can see her no longer. 

— — 

It is an unfamiliar room they’ve set up for her short stay. There are a handful still intact while the rest of the castle is rubble. Sansa’s view is ash and blood. The structures still standing are scorched. Daenerys and Drogon managed to leave a physical imprint behind, not just an emotional one. 

Sansa shivers at the idea of the dragon flying freely across Westeros, the Narrow Sea, Essos, and wherever else it would want to go. During dinner, Bran mentioned to all of them that he’s seen the dragon and he is not a threat for now. 

Her uncle had wondered aloud Jon’s possibility of controlling the beast, as he called it. Sam quickly established that the only dragon Jon had any semblance of discipline over was Rhaegal. Drogon was a possible threat to Jon as well, even if he could sense the Targaryen in the man.

Perhaps it was all for the better. Lord Tully and Lord Robin had been a bit too interested in knowing the relationship between Jon and dragons. 

_Fire cannot kill a dragon._ That’s what had been said for thousands of years. Daenerys had only promoted that idea as she emerged from flames several times. But Jon is a wolf too, and their fur easily burns.

Sansa changes into her nightgown; the material is too thick for Southron weather, but she had refused to bring anything else. Picking up her brush she pulls her hair to the left, beginning to stroke through it.

She tries to hum as she completes the mindless task, but voices haunt her mind.

_“Lady Margaery says she loves the color of my new dress. She says the shade is quite popular in the Reach.”_

_“M’lady,” Shae sighs. “She may lie as these women do here. You do not know her well.”_

_“Than I shall. After all, if High Garden is as lovely as everyone says, wouldn’t she like to come and visit Ser Loras and I from time to time? I think she values my company.”_

_Shae meets her gaze in the mirror. Her scowl softens. “And why wouldn’t she?” she replies, as she begins to brush her lady’s hair._

As Sansa had made her way to the Eyrie with Littlefinger, she had heard some talk of Tyrion’s trial. Littlefinger tried to block her from most of it, for his benefit she now knew. Sansa heard some whispers though of what Shae had been before; that her handmaiden too was involved with the littlest Lannister since before he came to the capital. 

She tried not to think on it much at the time, too relieved that she was heading northwards, and towards family no less. During the later nights though, when she heard Aunt Lysa’s exaggerated cries and grunts, she had wished for quiet and Shae’s motherly love as she rubbed ointments on Sansa’s latest wounds. Shae hugged her after in an effort to bandage the internal wounds. It was because of her, Sansa sometimes thinks, that there is slightly less scarring on her body, at the very least. 

Tears slip down her face as she takes in a shuddering gulp. Laying down, her thoughts drift to _him_. Nothing compares to the pain she feels at the idea of Jon kept prisoner below for weeks. He’s never belonged here in this castle with its terrible past and secrets. He’s never belonged to them or _her_. 

Bran had recounted what happened. Sansa had gotten ravens soon after. During their trip south, Sansa’s nightmares varied. Bran said the Dragon Queen’s death occurred in the great hall with Drogon near. Sansa’s terrors blur from her years of trauma. In these particular nightmares, she is young again, kneeling and begging. It’s Daenerys on the throne, not Joffrey. She shows no mercy as she scorches Jon alive, _‘dracarys’_ echoing off the walls as flames of red engulf Sansa’s sight.

Other times, Daenerys perches on the throne, a tall silver crown embellished with ruby-eyed dragons sits on her head. Jon stands on her right. His face solemn, his body broken as the queen flaunts him as nothing more than her property. Her smile is not the false thin-lipped one, but instead large and smug. She trots Tyrion out, embarrassment but also hope etched on his face as she announces that Sansa will rewed the Lannister. Sansa is never to see the North again for if she leaves, she will burn. Jon made the right decision, Daenerys would say, and so should Sansa. It is these nightmares that produce the most tears.

The one that haunts her most though is not a nightmare, but a dream. Sansa sits on a rock near the weirwood in Winterfell, with Jon by her side. They talk a bit, before Jon pulls her into his lap. His mouth eagerly covers hers, his hands rub her hips in comfort and in lust. Things cannot progress though because high-pitched giggles and the scuffle of feet interrupt them. _Children._

That dream causes Sansa to wake up, flushed. Her body needing, but her heart yearning even more.

Sansa reflects on these fantasies. They are not entirely wrong as Jon is her cousin, though he does not see her as such. It’s with this thought that Sansa falls asleep.

— — 

Brienne knocks on Sansa’s door as breakfast is brought in. Sansa cannot bring herself to spend another meal with these lords and ladies who are so decidedly uncertain about what they think of Daenerys and her final actions. 

“Will you stay, Brienne?” asks Sansa.

The tall woman pauses, but nods. As she lowers herself into the chair opposite, she offers Sansa a smile that does not reach her eyes. She glances at the food, wrinkling her nose. “I suppose all the good cooks here have died. Still, you should keep your strength up, my lady.”

Sansa smiles. “Thank you for your concern. It’s important that you stay strong as well. I noticed you had a… _unique_ relationship with Ser Jaime,” she says. Brienne’s eyes widen. “He fought bravely for us all at Winterfell. I am sorry for your loss. Truly.”

The other woman’s chin tucks in. When her bright blue eyes meet Sansa’s again, there are tears in them. “You do not need to say that, Lady Stark. I-I’m sure you have heard how he died.”

Sansa nods. The Rains of Castamere used to play in King’s Landing often as a reminder of the immortal Lannister strength; now there is only one left to whistle the song. She could have a thousand different hateful comments at the ready about Cersei. It is not the place though and they are sentiments that Brienne and everyone else already knows. This woman has been her fiercest companion and closest thing she’s had to a friend since Shae. Even more, Brienne is truer than them all.

Sansa reaches out, clasping the woman’s hand. Brienne lets out a soft gasp. 

“What I know for certain is that he seemed more at peace at the feast, with you and his brother and Podrick, than I had ever seen him in this horrid place. Perhaps he came to stop the battle and innocent deaths, by doing whatever that meant doing. Perhaps he came here to be with his twin once more, to save her too,” she says. 

Taking a deep breath, she continues, “They will say all kinds of things, but we will never know everything. Perhaps it should matter more to us all. It is your decision though, Brienne, of what memory you hold close. I suppose we have a habit of looking at the dead with fondness. I could _never_ begrudge you that.”

Brienne blinks back more tears. She wipes her nose before saying, “Thank you, my lady. I— well, thank you.”

Sansa gives her companion a genuine smile. They lapse into silence as she begins nibbling her food. 

Sansa is almost finished when Brienne sits forward, preparing to speak once more. “If I may inquire, what happens to his grace? Er, his lordship— I mean— Jon Snow.” 

“Jon saved us all from possible cruel fates. For that, he will get his freedom.”

It’s a vague explanation that causes Brienne hesitancy, but she nods in agreement. “And Lady Arya? Her chambers are now vacant.”

Leaning forward, Sansa quietly says, “She has a plan of sorts. I don’t know everything it entails, but I trust her as I trust you. She will not be making it back to Winterfell with us though. She has _business_. Please do not be concerned. I do not want the others raising questions.”

“Of course. I will wait until you are ready to head to the dragon pit,” replies Brienne. With her hand on the doorknob, she pauses to add, “Thank you, my lady.”

Sansa hurries in getting ready, her need to see Jon outweighing everything else. Glancing at herself in the mirror, she sets her mask of severity on. 

Walking to the pit with Brienne is most pleasing because neither engage in conversation. Podrick trails behind them, humming an unfamiliar tune under his breath. Sansa likes him too, for he is one of the few good men she has encountered in her life. 

They are not the first ones to arrive at the pit. Yara Greyjoy stands with her hands on her hips, tapping her foot. Ser Davos and Sam sit in silence, staring out at the destruction around them. Sansa thinks she heard Davos once mention he grew up in King’s Landing. She grimaces; he may have lost important people in the blaze.

Bran nods in greeting as she eases into her chair. It is apparent Tyrion Lannister now has his own chair, marking him as once again their equal. 

“Why is he now freed?” Sansa demands.

Bran glances at Tyrion. “He is now my hand.”

There are several immediate protests from the group as more file in. 

“He _betrayed_ Daenerys Targaryen, his own queen.”

“He may have protected the city once again Stannis, but luck was also on his side. His politics have been shaky. Your grace, I care for your family, your house. I could stay and serve you,” interjects Davos.

Tyrion has the decency to look abashed. Bran eyes each of them. “Thank you, Ser Davos. Your council will be needed in the North though. You served my cousin loyally. I’m sure you would do the same for my sister.”

The three of them exchange glances. Ser Davos rises. “I thank you, your grace. It would be an honor to serve you, Lady Stark. Now and always.”

Sansa smiles at the older man. She had been wary of him at the beginning, but held a certain fondness for him now. “I gladly seek your wise words, ser.” 

The tension dissipates until Grey Worm appears. He squares his shoulders, hands folding behind his back. His gaze settles on Sansa. 

“Where is Jon? We are here to discuss him,” says Sansa. 

“He will be brought once the decision is made. He has been removed from his cell,” concedes Grey Worm.

Tyrion jumps up. “A show of good faith! Thank you. I hope we all can come to a conclusion we find… prosperous.”

Sansa frowns, eyeing the Unsullied leader. Greyworm huffs. “I have conditions.”

“Such as?” prods Davos.

“Jon Snow must never come south again. He cannot hold a position in the South now and he cannot be brought here in the future. He cannot have Dragonstone. He must remain in the North for all his days.”

“The Wall?” clarifies Tyrion.

Several eyebrows crease in confusion. Davos says, “Pardon me, m’lord, but I believe the Wall serves no purpose.”

“What is he to do then? Wander the North as he pleases forever? That does not sound like a punishment Grey Worm seeks. I say the Wall is a fine alternative. Was he not prepared to spend his life there anyways?”

Grey Worm steps forward. He tilts his head to the side, cracking his neck. Sansa can see his fingers wiggling behind his back. Her eyes narrow as she takes in his movements which seem almost familiar all of a sudden. 

“I learn much from Missandei of Naath,” he begins. “She teach me the value of mercy and forgiveness. She would not hold anger in her forever, even if it is not wrong of her. She is gone because of Cersei Lannister, not Jon Snow. She is gone but her lessons still alive that I can live by. For her, I show Jon Snow mercy. In exchange for the conditions.”

As he finishes his speech, he gives Sansa a slight nod. Her breathing deepens, mind racing.

“Well, Grey Worm’s benevolence should be welcomed,” says Tyrion in a tentative voice. He shifts anxiously. “Still, are we to let Jon Snow roam free? He could travel southwards and we may not know.”

“You said yourself, Lord Tyrion, that Jon poses no threat to my brother,” Sansa snaps. 

“I stand by that. But he could still pose a threat to King Bran’s _reign_. We’ve all been here, so we cannot comprehend how many know that Jon is truly Aegon the sixth. Some may be threatened by that, tis true. Others may be inspired as his victories reach all ears of all the lands. And those would want him here, in King’s Landing. If he’s rebuilding the Night’s Watch, then he cannot rival Bran since he will have forsaken everything.”

“He won’t put Bran’s rule in peril. He won’t because _I_ will ensure he remains in the North.”

Tyrion gives her a pitying smile. “Lady Sansa—“

“I will marry Jon Snow. This will promote the unity we all seek. He will rule by my side as a Stark, renouncing the name Targaryen and all that holds. I will see that he never ventures to the South again.”

Sam blinks several times, his lips parting in surprise. Tyrion’s mouth hangs slightly ajar. Yara Greyjoy snorts. 

Davos’ eyebrows raise in shock. “Lady Stark, he is—“

“My mind is made up, good ser. We are cousins after all, so there is no issue in that regard. This way he will not be able to attain any position of power down here.”

“Unless he should which to extend the Northern kingdom,” remarks Tyrion.

“That will not happen,” she states. “I give my honor as a Stark. I assume that still holds weight as you praised my house only yesterday.”

Tyrion looks unsettled, but he dips his head in agreement. “King Bran?”

Bran declares, “It will be as it should.”

Tyrion runs a hand through his hair. “Are you satisfied, Grey Worm?”

Grey Worm has yet to look away from Sansa. Surveying them all he replies, “So long as Jon Snow does not come back here, I do not care. He will pay in remorse for the rest of his days. He will face his peoples’ questions. It was the Iron Throne my queen wanted, not Winterfell. I will not object.”

“Then… it is settled. Jon Snow’s fate is sealed to the North now,” Tyrion says. Turning to several guards, he requests, “Bring Jon Snow here.”

Sansa’s heart beats faster. Peering at Grey Worm, she asks, “Where will you go?”

The commander steps forward. “Where will we go,” he answers.

Her reply catches in her throat. Sansa remembers a night, not so long after Littlefinger’s execution. She had supped with only her sister. They spoke of Jon because he was one of the safer topics. Sansa had cradled her wine to her chest as she told the tale of her arrival at Castle Black. She was trying to explain how excited Jon would be to see Arya again. So Sansa had recounted exactly what she said, when she feared he’d leave. _Where will we go_ , Sansa told her sister, never sounded so precious. 

“Where will _we_ —the Unsullied—go? We will sail.”

She wants to reach out, to ask if it’s her. The faces had terrified Sansa, but now she can just stare in wonder. 

Everything dissipates though, as Jon comes into view. He looks exhausted. His hair is longer than Sansa has seen it in ages; it is messy and obscures his eyes. His shoulders are slumped in defeat. 

Sansa wishes to push everyone else away and embrace him the way he did her that cold day at the Wall. Instead, she stands while he is presented. His eyes scan them all before resting on her. His face screws up in grief and something unnamed. Her tongue slips out to wet her lower lip in anxiousness. Jon’s eyes follow her movements. 

Looking at the guards she says, “Remove the constraints. He is a prisoner no longer.”

Jon stumbles forward with apparent confusion. Davos steps up and steadies him. “We have a solution, lad.”

Davos and Tyrion explain Grey Worm’s conditions and Sansa’s proposal. Sansa remains where she is, taking in Jon’s expressions. He goes through a range of emotions. His eyes hold something that she can’t quite place.

When they finish, Jon shakes his head. “No. I won’t do it. I won’t force Sansa into another political marriage.”

His face contorts. She cannot take it any longer. Sansa moves closer. “It was my idea, Jon. No one is forcing me, least of all you.”

He whispers, “Sansa—“

Her heart beats rapidly against her chest. She wraps her arms around him, pulling him close. She could sob as she gets to take in his scent and nearness again. “It’s alright, Jon. I promise. Please come back. Come _home_.”

His fingers press into her back, squeezing her tight against his chest. Breaking away, his mouth sets in a line. His cheeks and ears tinge pink. He glances away from her as if he’s flustered. “I— fine. I agree.”

Sansa reaches for his hand, their fingers intertwining. Her thumb strokes his hand in an effort to comfort him. His dark eyes meet hers, as if searching for something. Giving a slight shake of his head, he looks away.

She never wants to see this city again; she never wants to again witness how it drains everything out of the Jon she knows. Her lips press together in an effort to hide the overwrought feelings stirring in her belly. Her hand jerks, tugging Jon’s attention back to her. His brows furrow. Her other hand reaches up, smoothing dark curls away from his face. She pretends she does not notice how his body tenses at her touch. 

There’s so much she has to tell him. This is what she will say. Instead she murmurs, “I missed you. I missed you, Jon.”


	2. Jon I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) 13 days later lol. This is actually a record for me, believe it or not. That being said, next update will take longer because I'm gonna be in NY for a week. And I'm not bringing my laptop on vacay sooo.
> 
> 2) I've slightly altered the tags. Basically, first time I forgot to add Pol!Jon. It's mentioned in this chapter and may be mentioned later on. I know most people like that, but just in case, sorry, it's now tagged. Also... I know I've tagged smut and it's _coming._ I honestly thought the wedding night was gonna happen this chapter but then Sansa and Jon talked for 1.3K words... (It's hard trying to explain the mess that was s8 Jon.) So although you and me both are sad they aren't getting down and dirty (and awkward)... it's for sure coming next chapter!
> 
> 3) This is my first time writing a Northern wedding, and from Jon's POV no less. I really hope I did it justice!!! I didn't know how to approach the whole cloaking since he's taking her name, but they seem old fashioned too. So I came up with this concept that I like. I hope you do also!! A _MASSIVE_ shoutout and thank you to those who made the 'Marriage' info page on Game of Thrones Wiki and on A Wiki of Ice and Fire. It's stockpiled with info that I wanted to confirm or didn't know. (And with other things like travel distance and farming -- confusing things for me.) Also thanks to thefandomentals who critiqued Sansa's previous show wedding dresses and included her book dress and cloak description. Sansa's dress in this fic is partly based off George's intention. 
> 
> 4) By restoring Jon's POV, I hope I can do him justice. He definitely needs to process some things. I don't want him to be completely self-pitying or mopey, but acknowledging he's in love with Sansa is, like, a big thing. And he's still very unaware of how Sansa feels (because _men_ ). I hope to shed some light on s8 and where he is now though through his POV. Tbh, Jon is harder for me to write than Sansa... but I'm determined to give them more love than d&d did. There was more I wanted to say about this but I can't remember lolz, so on with the chapter!!!! Comments and kudos are always infinitely appreciated!!!
> 
> 5) Disclaimer: I do not own anything related to the HBO series "Game of Thrones" or the book "A Song of Ice and Fire" by George R. R. Martin. Title credit to Charlotte Brontë's, "Jane Eyre".

The first thing Sansa offers to do is trim his hair. There’s more important things that need discussion, but they couldn’t bring themselves to say everything yet after first being reunited. 

Sansa had only relayed Arya’s words; his worry palpable. Sansa assures him that they will all be back at Winterfell together at some point. It’s a thought that is much more than pleasant.

“Finished,” announces Sansa. Her hands knead his scalp after brushing stray hairs off of him. Jon coughs, drawing away from her.

“Thank you, Sansa.” 

His voice is still raspy from an extended period of disuse, but at least he looks more like himself. 

Sansa sweeps her skirts up before settling in the chair across from him with a cup of wine. Tomorrow they start trekking north. Their men are tired. The high lords and ladies from the council meeting are tired. He’s tired. Sansa is tired. His sweet, strong sister— _cousin_ —who brought an army southwards for him. 

She blinks, taking him in. It’s her that breaks the silence. “I don’t want to push you. I don’t enjoy causing you distress. But I have to know what happened, Jon. I need to know, not just as the Lady of Winterfell, but as your— as Sansa.”

Her voice is stern and eyes imploring. 

“Aye. And you deserve it. It was never supposed to happen this way,” Jon says. He rubs his hands on his temples. 

“And what was supposed to happen?” Sansa inquires, eyebrows pulling together. 

“I-I don’t know. An entire city should still stand. Maybe everything…” his words die in his throat.

“You love and mourn her.”

Jon pulls his gaze back to her. Her mouth turns down, but it is the only outward sign of her displeasure. 

He knows Daenerys drove a wedge between them. Her presence from the beginning had put the Northerners on guard. Her iciness towards Sansa, their lady, only made things worse. The deserved reverie they held for Sansa was all too obvious for Daenerys. 

Daenerys’ full eyes would narrow, nostrils would flare, as she glowered at the woman over half a head taller than her. Her resentfulness was overwhelming, slipping into their conversations that shouldn’t have involved his family.

 _“Did you see how the lords all rose when your sister left after breaking her fast? Many did not stay long after— a slight to me_ and _you. They do not bow and wait for their queen, but they see fit to do so for_ her?” _demands Daenerys._

_Jon’s eyes flicker nervously between her and a wall. He’s desperate to appease her, even though it’s more difficult each time._

_“They had to get a start on the day sooner than later. They realize how much is required to defeat the Dead. And they want to live— to see the_ rightful _queen on the Iron Throne. They know you will save us. They want to show that,” he explains._

 _Daenerys’ shoulders relax, but her eyes are still slanted in frustration. She replies, “Of course. I am pleased that my people are so hardworking. I only require that appropriate respect be shown as they seem to gladly grant your sister, do they not? And what is a lady to a_ queen?”

_“You’re right, Dany. They feel as if they owe her something, after all that happened with the Boltons.” Jon’s voice goes hard, but he tries to temper it down. It is not enough, as Daenerys cocks her head in observance._

_“I was sold and raped. I was kidnapped. I was threatened by powerful men. I_ too _know the trials of women. But here I, Daenerys Stormborn, stand as the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. I stand here because of myself.” She pauses, eyes flickering up at him._

_“You are—“ Jon pauses, searching for palatable words. “Miraculous, Dany. You’re my queen. Our queen.”_

_She chuckles. “My Northern man is no poet.” Her petite figure presses close to him. “Your devotion is sweet, Jon Snow.”_

_“I-I stand by you,” he replies._

_She pulls away, still grinning as her eyes darken. “That’s good. I only hope your sister follows suit, It’s not just in the North’s best interest, it’s in hers too.”_

_She strokes his arm, then leaves before he can utter a word. His ears are ringing. If she were anyone else, he would’ve put his hands around their neck, choking until life ended. For his life would end, if anything happened to Sansa._

_The situation is delicate. Jon knows he must do what he has to for the North and his family._

Jon shakes his head, realizing he’s given no answer. “No. Sansa, that’s not it at all.”

Her pink lips purse. “What is it then?” 

He can tell she wants to say more, but instead waits silently.

“You told me to be smarter than Robb. Smarter than Father. So I tried to be.”

Jon remembers that day well. He remembers how she grabbed his arm. Even though she wore gloves, her touch warmed him as if he was summer come again. _Father couldn’t protect me and neither can you. Stop trying_ , she chastised. And now? He has not protected her enough.

“Jon?” 

“I lied, Sansa.” His voice cracks at last. “I told Daenerys she was my queen. Told you all she was our queen. I-I acted as her lover. I did what I could so that we were guaranteed her dragons and army. We had to have them for the Long Night. I saw no other way.” 

Her fingers still against her cup, knuckles whitening as her grip tightens. “You lied?”

Jon can’t tell if its horror in her tone. His heart drops. She’s been surrounded by liars ever since she first left Winterfell; now he's just another. 

“I tried to play the game.”

Sansa’s thumb rubs against the palm of her hand and his eyes trace the movement. Her face is blank as she asks, “You never held true love for her?”

“No. I might have loved the idea of what she could’ve been once. But it was never anything so romantic as everyone— as _she_ supposed. I felt trapped though. Once I found out she was my aunt, I was horrified. But there was this small part of me that still had hope. She was supposed to be the last dragon. A Targaryen alone in the world, Maester Aemon once said, is a terrible thing.”

Jon pauses, glancing away. “It was like there was someone who might’ve understood what it felt like. I’d become something _twisted_ since arriving at Dragonstone and she was… but I would do anything to protect you, Arya, and Bran. You are my family, but I pushed you away and welcomed her. Mayhaps there was goodness in her before. But then there wasn’t and I still let her into our home. I let her near _you_. I’m so sorry, Sansa.”

“Oh Jon,” Sansa whispers. She abandons her seat to be near him. Her small hands fold around his. She rests on her knees by his legs, skirts pooling around her. 

The picture she creates pierces through him. His face crumples as he begs, “Never kneel. Not for me.”

She pats his arm and shakes her head. “But you’re my king.”

Jon can no longer contain the sob that he emits. His heart thrums in delight, even as his mind tells him to stop. “I-I’m not honorable,” he whispers in between cries.

“Is that what you honestly believe?”

He rears his head back. “Aye. I laid with her under false terms. I claimed I was _in love_ with her. I called her my queen always, right before I thrust a dagger in her. Would our—your—father have done that? Do you not recall how Jaime Lannister appalled him?”

Sansa now pulls away too. Hurt is etched onto her face. “Father’s honor cost him his life. But what did his lies, along with yours, get? You are here. If you are waiting for me to dismiss you as nothing but a vile man, then you will be disappointed.” 

Jon huffs, standing up to refill his cup. “I—“

“Do you wish me to be angry with you, Jon? I already was. From the moment you returned you—you _let me down_ ,” Sansa retorts. 

Her chest heaves. She hisses, “I loathed that you let Daenerys Targaryen into our home. I hated that you bent the knee to her. You gave everything to her, trailing behind like she was the Mother and Maiden incarnated. I couldn’t begin to fathom your reasoning. I didn’t recognize the man that came back.”

Jon moves to say something, but she shoots him a look. He sits back in his chair as they assess each other.

“I can only feel relieved that the Jon who took back Winterfell with me, who threatened Littlefinger over me, was always there underneath,” she finishes.

At the mention of Baelish, Jon squeezes his fists.

_I love Sansa… as I loved her mother._

_She doesn’t need to be my friend, but I am her queen. If she can’t respect me…_

“Daenerys threatened you. And she was bold enough to think it wouldn’t bother me. What does that say?”

He waits to see if shock flits across her face, but it does not. “It says that you played your part well.”

Sansa tilts her head, lost in thought for a moment. Then, she says, “I know some of how you feel. I carried the guilt over Lady and Father and others for years. It was you that insisted I rid myself of my shame. So now, I do the same for you.”

Her voice is softer as she watches him absorb her words. Jon tears his gaze away. “She did not treat you at all as you deserved. _I_ didn’t. I could see how hurt you were. And at the feast when you left…“

He sees her cheeks pinken. 

“I was upset because I did not know what your plans were. I didn’t know what you were thinking because you would not talk to me. We were supposed to work _together_ like a true pack.”

She tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “But now I know. I’m still upset, but it is incomparable to how happy I am that you are alive. I wish you had told me. Things might have ended less messy, at the very least.”

“You have every right to be more than furious,” Jon says. 

Sansa sighs. “It will do us no good if I’m to hold an eternal resentment. What kind of marriage would that be?”

He stills as she chucks back the last of her wine. Sansa was always generous as a child with everyone but him. Now, she gives her future away so that he can live at Winterfell and have a role and see his friends.

Jon’s drink is too bitter all of a sudden. “What kind of marriage will it be to begin with anyways?”

Whatever cheerfulness Sansa had in her disappears. He eyes the floor. What a fool he is, to continue discussing their impending fate. 

Sansa rises, hair swinging with her movements. “We should both sleep. The journey back will be tiresome, I imagine.”

“Sansa.” Jon interrupts her when she’s almost reached the door. “I can’t say thank you enough. I-I love you.”

Her lips spread into a small grin. “I love you, Jon. Don’t forget that.”

She exits without another word. He sits in silence, willing himself to head to bed.

Her words echo in his mind. Her eyes, the prettiest he’s ever seen, are all he sees when his lids close.

He may not be an official bastard, but he is still base. Sansa is all he pictures that night as his hand closes around his length, moving up and down rapidly. Her name is on the tip of his tongue as he spills his seed onto his stomach. 

Jon will dream of her tonight, he’s sure. As he’s dreamed of her many nights in the past. 

— — 

They’ve traveled for over a week now, but Jon is still surprised at the esteemed way the Northmen still treat him. Some have known Jon in a basic sense all his life. They’d seen him in the practice yard with Robb and Theon. He’d traveled with his father when his lordship passed judgement. He walked through Winter Town often enough in his childhood. 

He was still that Jon. He also _wasn’t._ Growing up, his closest relationships were with Robb and Arya. Even as Father showed him the same affection, Lady Catelyn always hovered in the back of their minds. 

_That_ Jon had felt pride when Sansa was tiny and demanded hugs and kisses from both her older brothers after a fall. _That_ Jon later loved his distant sister while also begrudging what she represented. _That_ Jon objectively knew Sansa was pretty. Robb had threatened more than one stable boy as she began blossoming. Robb would pull Jon along with him crying in anger, _she’s our sister._ His younger self shared no strong interests with her. Even so, Jon had always been aware of Sansa. Arya sometimes called her _Pretty Princess_ in a spiteful voice, wanting to draw laughs from her other siblings.

And now? Just the thought of her carrying his babe edges him towards randiness. Jon would be mortified if he wasn’t busy feeling queasy with himself. 

Two women had wished to hide away from the world with him for eternity. The idea was alluring with one and grim with the other. Sansa has not asked that. She isn’t in love with him, Jon reminds himself. In that cave long ago, he knew selfishness was not in him. Something dark laughs within. What is he doing now?

_You know nothing, Jon Snow._

“You seem lost in thought.”

Sansa stands, hands folded in front of her. She isn’t smiling, but her eyes glow. 

“I don’t mind the company,” he says. This earns him a grin and Jon feels the corners of his mouth turn up. 

“I’ve been sewing. It’s important we wed as soon as possible. I wish us to look nice,” Sansa confesses. Her nose scrunches up. “I know there are far more important things.”

“You deserve the wedding you wanted as a girl.” _You deserve the man too_ , he wants to add. 

She reaches out and fleetingly caresses his arm. “So do you.”

His breath hitches and he looks down.

Eyes growing big, Sansa says, “I only meant—“

“I know. Thank you, Sansa. I wish I could help more.”

“You’ve done enough already. Besides, you know I enjoy it.”

They sink into a comfortable silence. Jon wonders if this is what married life will feel like. After everything, they can sit together and just be. As family. As a family.

Sansa clears her throat. “I proposed that Davos officiate the ceremony. It would have been nice to have Sam fill the role, but he will not have returned from Horn Hill in time. Brienne will accompany me as escort.”

As if summoned, Davos sticks his head through the tent flaps. “My lady, my lord, may I enter?”

They nod. 

“I hope this is not impertinent of me, but I suggest minimizing your time alone together as you are betrothed now.”

Jon wants to object, but Sansa answers, “We have much to discuss in private. For propriety’s sake, you’re right, ser. There’s business I should get back to now anyways. I bid you good day.”

With one last smile at both men, Sansa is gone as quick as she came. 

“One thing Lannister was right about: she will make a good queen,” says Davos. 

“Sansa was born to rule. I wasn’t.”

“You were. And you’re meant to do it with her. She will never lead you astray.”

“She told Tyrion who I am,” Jon says. “She says she did it to protect me and I know it’s the truth. But I-I worry I’ll fail her. She saw me as a better alternative, but I’m just as much Targaryen as Daenerys.”

“No. That woman was _raised_ on ‘fire and blood’. She believed she knew right and shut her council out in the end. She demolished a whole city,” says Davos. The older man rubs his beard.

“All of this was meant for Robb. For Sansa. I just wanted to be a Stark.”

“The people chose your cousin. Now, they’ve chosen you and Lady Sansa. And she’s chosen to make you a Stark, though everyone considered you one before. As far as I can see, there is no one more deserving or wanted. You look and _act_ nothing like the Targaryens. _This_ is who you are.”

— — 

In the final days of preparation for their wedding, Jon thinks Sansa seems uneasy. They have had to deal with quite a bit whilst settling back in. 

Food supply was still somewhat a concern. Sansa had planned well. The food they stored is more depleted though than expected due to Daenerys’ lack of aid. The remaining grain stockpiles have to be sorted. They had lost farmers as well due to the need for any fighters in the Great War. Trade with the South is set in place, but both Jon and Sansa remain skeptical.

All of this meant they were having a meager feast in wedding terms. 

Jon doesn't mind. It is not a true concern for Sansa either, but he wishes he—and everyone, really—could offer more. 

A knock sounds on his solar door before he can wallow more. 

“Come in.”

“Hello,” Sansa whispers. “Close your eyes.”

He frowns, opening his mouth. He closes it when Sansa coughs in annoyance. His eyes press closed.

“I have your cloak made for the wedding,” she explains, followed by a rustling of fabric. “It is a surprise. I need to make sure it fits right. Will you stand?”

As he rises, he begins to open his eyes. Sansa quickly presses her fingers against his eyelids; bursts of reddish orange bloom in his vision at her touch. 

Her breaths are cool as they blow against his skin. Her hands are gentle as she drapes the garment over him. She begins patting around his shoulders. Jon stands straight, willing his body to relax as her hands drift over his body. 

He thinks she steps back as she hums her approval. Jon’s voice is oddly hoarse as he says, “Thank you for making this.”

“The old cloak must have been destroyed,” responds Sansa, sad for a moment. “Besides, our wedding will stand out from those before. I-I want something to just be _ours._ ”

Her voice is delicate and airy at the end; for a moment the girl who used to wear pretty ribbons and giggle with Jeyne Poole is back. His heart aches for that girl and this Sansa before him. How does she feel in truth about wedding her brother-turned-cousin? They’ve created a delicate place though and he does not want anything ruining it. 

“I’d like that,” he murmurs. 

There is silence for a moment. Then, he feels the softness of Sansa’s lips against his cheek. Jon can smell her hair and feel her body heat. He curls his hands into fists to stop from grabbing her. Her presence encompasses him as he squeezes his eyes shut tighter. 

Time is all too slow and fast while she pulls away. As she takes the cloak off him, Sansa says, “We are going to be alright, Jon.”

“Aye. I will look after you _always_ ,” he says. The words leave him and swirl around them in the room. 

“I remember the games we played as children. You and Robb indulged me often. And you both were victorious against the monster every time.” 

Until Robb wasn’t. They had been a team. Brothers in battle, fighting for Sansa’s life and honor. Jon knows now, Robb should have then turned his sword on him. _I’ve disgraced her with my thoughts and feelings_ , Jon would say. _I’m sorry._

“Arya did enjoy embodying the role,” says Jon to lighten his mood. Her chuckles fill the room. 

“I wish she could be with us tomorrow. And Bran,” Sansa adds after a pause. 

Jon isn’t sure what their sister would think. Arya’s face was often impassive, but Jon wonders if that too was because of Daenerys’ presence and threat she posed. Sansa had said their younger siblings were different already. Jon does not know if this changed Arya would be happy to know he’ll be bedding her sister. 

The bedding. 

Jon announces, “There will be no bedding ceremony after the feast. I have made it clear.”

“I-It’s tradition,” she says, though he can tell the idea does not please her. 

“I have already talked to Davos and the lords. No one will lay a hand on you.” _Except me._

Jon’s jaw clenches at the idea of other men touching Sansa, joking about her teats, or shouting crude comments as he’s sure is the way of beddings.

“Thank you,” she whispers. 

Jon feels exposed, but not necessarily in a bad way. He wants to open his eyes and drink her in though, for all the moments he could not when Daenerys and her council resided at Winterfell.

“I should go. You cannot see me until the ceremony, after all. I will have Davos bring the cloak beforehand.”

Jon blindly reaches out, his hand grasping at air until dainty fingers intertwine with his. “Sansa I—“ he pauses. “I will see you tomorrow.”

He feels a squeeze that lasts several seconds. After she lets go, there is more rustling until he hears the door shut.

Jon slowly opens his eyes. The room smells like her.

With heavy feet, Jon moves towards his desk. Scrolls are piled, including one from Lord Glover. He offers Jon and Sansa congratulations, writing his intentions of riding to Winterfell for the coronation. Jon scoffs, throwing it into the fire. 

The flames dance and he thinks of Daenerys and Drogon and even Melisandre. Shaking his head, he rids them from his thoughts for now.

This is a time for wolves.

— —

Davos has just left after giving Jon his wedding cloak. Jon touches the material; it is clearly for formal use rather than everyday wear. 

He unfurls the garment, eyes widening. Sansa had said their cloaks should be special, but Jon was unsure what she had planned. It is of soft grey coloring. Embroidered in the center is a large, strong direwolf. Jon traces the head with awe, for the wolf is white. 

_The White Wolf_ , Lord Manderly had declared him. This wolf represented Ghost. It represented him.

Jon smooths his attire once more before draping the cloak around himself. He ties his hair back, rubbing the scars near his eyes. 

Today he weds Sansa. 

Jon makes his way out to the godswood, his body filled with nerves. Torches are lit, forming a circle around the group of guests.

He stands with Davos in front of the weirwood. Looking down, he pulls his gloves off.

“My lord?” Davos questions.

“I’m not cold,” states Jon. When Sansa puts her hand in his, he wants to _feel_ her. 

Everyone waits, talking in hushed voices. Davos rubs his hands together, his own anxiousness showing. Jon sees Gilly and smiles at her. Her belly protrudes much more and Jon knows it’s good that Sam insisted she stay while he journeyed south with everyone. 

The lords and ladies fall quiet. 

Jon looks forward and sees her. His mouth feels dry. All he can do is take her in. 

She walks at a steady pace. Her arm is linked with Brienne’s; the knight appears proud. Her eyes briefly scan their guests, before landing on his.

Sansa had not been smiling before, but now her lips turn up just enough for him to see. Her hair is partially pulled up and forms a braided crown. Her cheeks are pink from the weather, he thinks. 

Her dress is ivory and silver. The bodice that hugs her close looks faintly like fish scales, in homage to her mother. Jon can see ties on the sides that remind him of Arya’s clothing. When she reaches him, Jon notices wolves run down the long train of her dress intertwined with weirwood leaves. He counts four. 

Davos clears his throat and asks, “Who comes before the Old Gods this night?”

“Sansa, of the House Stark, comes here to be wed,” responds Brienne. “A woman grown, trueborn, and noble. She comes to beg the blessings of the Gods. Who comes to claim her?”

Jon takes a step forward, heart hammering. “Jon… of the H-House Targaryen, Warden of the North.” He pauses, unsure what else to say. “Who gives her?”

“Brienne, of the House Tarth, who is her sworn shield.”

Davos nods. “Lady Sansa, do you take this man?”

Jon gulps. Her gaze has not left his. 

Sansa’s smile grows as she states, “I take this man.”

Jon reaches his hand out, as he was informed to do. Her bare hand slips in his, cold fingers bringing him alive. She nods her assurance and they move to the heart tree. 

Jon can barely think. Yet he kneels alongside Sansa, flattening his hand against the wood so he can pray. Jon has not been terribly religious in years. He is not sure he knows _how_ to properly pray anymore.

Still, with his knees pressed into the smattering of snow, he bows his head. _Please let Sansa have happiness. Please let me protect her until my last breath. Please let us grow old together, here, in our home._

Jon turns his head to Sansa. Her lips are moving, but he cannot hear what she whispers. She stops and turns to him, eyes smiling. Together, they stand.

Davos coughs in a reminder. Jon blinks, then moves his hands to the cloak clasp. Sansa does the same. 

They had decided that, though he was taking her name, he should still cloak her; in turn, she would cloak him. It is unusual, but he has no qualms. 

Her cloak looks a bit large on her and he understands that she has sized it to match his. Gently, he whisks his off. 

Turning around, Sansa folds her cloak in her arms. He gently pushes her hair to the side, wrapping the cloak with its proud white wolf around her shoulders, As she moves to face him again, he clasps the garment together around her. 

Sansa unfolds the cloak she wore. Hers is grey too. However, the direwolf is instead red. _The Red Wolf._ It is her. 

Jon quickly turns around, staring out into the sky as she wraps the garment over him. In essence, Sansa wraps herself as protection. 

Her hands reach out to clasp his cloak together and Jon notices they are trembling. His stomach drops as he tries to read her expression. 

When she pulls away, he grabs her hands in comfort. Sansa smiles again. 

Cheers from the small group fill his ears. All Jon can see though, all he can feel, is Sansa. 

“Kiss, Kiss!” several shout. 

Jon stiffens, glancing at his— at his wife. She doesn't bother looking at the men. She does tilt her head though. 

He lifts his right hand, cupping her cheek like he did that day on the battlements. _You are to me._ Her eyes flutter shut. Her hands still clasp his between them, so Sansa leans forward. Jon closes his eyes and presses his lips to hers.

They are soft and surprisingly warm. It should be a chaste kiss, Jon knows. It is the symbolism of a completed ceremony that the lords want. Jon’s dreamt of this many times. His body and heart yearn to know everything about her. 

Jon pulls her lower lip into his mouth, sucking on it for a brief moment. Sansa gasps, drawing him back to everything. His body jolts and he takes a step back. 

Sansa’s eyes are blown wide. Jon hangs his head in shame; he’s disgusted her or worse, frightened her. 

Davos and Brienne eye him warily, but the guests whoop and holler as the feast can begin. 

“Erm, my lord,” interrupts Davos. “It is Northern tradition that the husband carries his bride to the feast.”

Jon glances at the expectant men and women and then at Sansa. 

“It’s a harmless custom,” she murmurs. 

Jon nods. With great care, he gathers her into his arms. The crowd applauds in response as they all head back inside the castle. 

Sansa swings her legs back and forth. Tittering, she says, “Mayhaps being a bride _is_ wonderful.”

Jon stares down at her. She is flushed and looking at her feet. Sansa seems happier then he dared anticipate. For a moment Jon wants to hope, but he quells the silly feeling. 

When they reach their chairs, he gently sets her down. The hall fills with more noise than even after the Great War. Everyone seems more comfortable, Jon notices, despite their exhaustion. 

Once they are both seated, Sansa turns to him. She shyly says, “Thank you, Husband.”

His heart flutters against his chest like a bird trying to break free and take flight. 

_Husband._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pulled a lotta lines this round. Credits due (in order). 
> 
> Direct quote from "Game of Thrones" season 7 episode 1 "Dragonstone" written by David Benioff and D.B. Weiss  
> Direct quote from "Game of Thrones" season 5 episode 5 "Kill the Boy" written by Bryan Cogman  
> Direct quote from "Game of Thrones" season 7 episode 2 "Stormborn" written by Bryan Cogman  
> Direct quote from "Game of Thrones" season 8 episode 1 "Winterfell" written by Dave Hill  
> Direct quote from "Game of Thrones" season 2 episode 7 "A Man Without Honor" written by David Benioff and D.B. Weiss  
> Direct quote from "Game of Thrones" season 5 episode 6 "Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken" written by Bryan Cogman  
> Direct quote from "Game of Thrones" season 6 episode 10 "The Winds of Winter" written by David Benioff and D.B. Weiss
> 
> p.s. find me on Tumblr lovelies, where I ramble like craaazy


	3. Sansa II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) 5 weeks (?) later and I'm back!! I am so sorry guys for the late update. As you know, I was in NY during the week I would normally try to update... but I've since been back; I struggled through finishing up this chapter and then editing. I'm hopeful that you'll never have to wait that long for another chapter. Thank you for your patience and understanding!!
> 
> 2) Since the beginning, I've been promising you smut. Well, it's finally here!!! From this point on in the story, there will be regular smut. This wasn't as sexy as I was initially planning, but I think you'll see why. I'm hoping after this first time, things will get more fun/exploratory/sexy as that's what I originally wanted this story to be. Alas, plot has slipped in... more than I intended, but without it, it's kinda nothing. 
> 
> 3) WARNING - This chapter does briefly mention Ramsey and sexual assault. This chapter addresses effects and emotions Sansa is going through in regards to sex because of that. I really debated on how to write this. I wrote and edited several bits. I've noticed that in fics here, often writers will either have Sansa be totally fine and she is more than ready to have sex with Jon and there's really no addressing of her history. Or I have read Sansa as needing to build up comfortability with sex and a man touching her. It's obviously dependent on what a writer is comfortable with and what the story is... I decided to take an in the middle approach that I think works best for the premise of this fic. To be clear, everything is consensual here!
> 
> 4) The other thing I have noticed is how naive (or not) writers make Sansa in regards to sex. I've read both and enjoy them in different ways. With this, I decided to make Sansa lean more on the naive side. The only experience she has (unfortunately) had is with Ramsay. That was horrid, disgusting, and non-consensual. She didn't learn what healthy sex is/could be. So I think Jon is kinda perfect for this. I really did go back-and-forth on how I wanted this written and depicted. In the end, I'm pretty much satisfied with it. It's heavier than I initially wanted, but I think it's necessary in order to get to the light, fun saucy times to come. 
> 
> 5) Sansa is QITN!!! Her hair + crown is based on the original storyboard which is on a featurette with Sophie. Also it's important that Sansa has equal, if not slightly more, sway... which I hoped to show through her being crowned first. Anyways, I'll ramble more on Tumblr! Kudos & comments always infinitely appreciated!
> 
> 6) Disclaimer: I do not own anything related to the HBO series "Game of Thrones" or the book "A Song of Ice and Fire" by George R. R. Martin. Title credit to Charlotte Brontë's, "Jane Eyre".

Sansa scans the crowd. The men and women look genuinely happy. Davos sits at a table with Brienne and Podrick, who is smiling at a pretty, young serving maid. The food fills the bellies of their people and, for a moment, everything seems at peace.

Sansa turns to look at Jon, startling as his eyes are already trained on her. He blinks, flicking his gaze to his plate. 

Throughout the entire meal Jon has looked pale. He’s in shock, perhaps. A bastard’s wedding would not cause such fuss. Not even Robb had such an affair. He’d managed finding a septon willing to wed them in secret. Sansa imagined him in the furs he always wore, the clothes that she would help mend with their mother. His bride had brown hair— that was all Sansa knew of her. No one used her name, a “foreign whore” they said.

Bran could see their wedding. He could tell her everything. The way she wore her hair. The look on Robb’s face. It was a secret though that no one, not even his family, was meant to see.

_You were so beautiful in your white wedding dress._

Her fingers curl into the wood.

“Sansa?” 

Jon peers at her, concerned. He opens his mouth to speak, halting when servants arrive with dessert. A platter of lemon cakes is set down like an offering. When going over what food could be provided, Sansa had not mentioned the sweet. There were more important things.

“You did this,” Sansa says.

Jon blushes and nods. “I-I know you said thet weren’t necessary, but… well, I couldn’t imagine either of your previous betrothed caring whether you got anything you wanted during the feast. It wasn’t much of an expense. I hope you’ll enjoy them, Sansa.”

Jon shifts awkwardly, awaiting her reaction.

Plucking a slice up, Sansa sets it on the dish in front of her. Breaking a corner of the treat off, she eats it. Having not had the food in years, the taste overwhelms her. _Home._

Taking some off the other end of the slice, Sansa eyes Jon. He sits still, relaxed some since realizing she appreciates his gesture. 

“Open your mouth,” she whispers.

His jaw drops, more from surprise than at her request. Still, Sansa holds the bit of cake, her fingers brush against his lips as she plops the sweet into his mouth. Pulling away, Sansa feels tingles run up and down her body. 

Jon stares at her as he chews. Swallowing, he says, “Thank you.”

“Thank _you._ This surprise was very thoughtful,” she says, managing a steady tone.

“Would you like to dance?”

Her eyebrows raise. “You hate dancing.”

Jon shrugs, replying, “I would though, if you wished to.”

“That’s kind. I admit though, my nerves might throw me off balance. You and I would both have bruised toes.”

Sansa sees a look flit on his face that she knows is sadness. Glancing away, she takes another bite of cake. 

“Sansa,” he says, ready to make a full speech she’s sure.

“I’m not nervous because of _you._ It’s just—“

_I’m sorry for all that’s happened to you. I’m sorry it had to happen here, in our home._

“Once in a while the memories still get the best of me, I suppose,” she says, though that’s not quite it. _It_ is hard to put into words. 

“I love you,” Jon says, so quite Sansa almost misses it.

It’s in a brotherly way still, she understands. It’s true all the same though and it warms the coldness that had crept through her. 

“I love you.” 

Sansa finishes off the cake slice in silence. 

Pushing the dish away and finishing off her wine, Sansa musters up courage. This is _Jon._ The boy who would play Monster without any objection while Robb saved her as her prince time and time again. Jon who brought her Lady. Jon who did not travel south, but fought for Winterfell for her.

“Shall we leave now?” Sansa asks. 

He downs the rest of his drink and nods.

— — 

Jon drops her hand to close the door. Glancing around, she sees that most of his belongings have been moved into the room.

The bed looks as it always does. Some small candles are lit; the work of her maids no doubt. There’s a flagon of wine and two cups. 

“Sansa,” begins Jon. She turns around to find him struggling for words. “We don’t have to do _anything._ Let’s just go to sleep.”

Sansa would find it comical if she didn’t know that he truly believes that. His whole body is tense as his eyes dart around the room. He has never been in here, she realizes. Sansa feels sorrow on behalf of the young Jon who craved a mother's love as much as he craved being a Stark. That boy could never enter her parents’ room. 

“The kingdom needs an heir. Our marriage must be valid. It almost seems everything is a reason of why we must.”

Jon glowers. “None of that matters compared to your feelings.”

Her heart pounds in her chest, torn on what to feel. She presses her thumb into her left palm, hopeful Jon does not notice. 

_Do you have any faith in me at all?_

Sansa trusts no man more than the one before her— her _husband._ That word is more delicious on her tongue than any sweet; it is a truth that almost frightens her.

With every bit of her, Sansa knows Jon would never harm her. Her husband is not like _him._ He will never scatter her arms with bruises. He will never scar her back. He will never shove her face further into the furs, letting her struggle for air, as he takes his pleasure. 

Yet knowing all this does not stop her body from quivering with dread. Jon has never been rough with her; so the act must cause minimum pain. Of course Sansa heard women say the act can be pleasurable, but perhaps it is just boastfulness in the hopes of sounding as if they have some meager bit of power in the bed. 

“It’s okay, Jon,” she says. 

He opens his mouth to speak, but she turns away. Standing in front of her mirror, Sansa unbraids her hair. Her red locks fall around her in a curtain. Sansa’s thoughts drift to her mother for just a moment. How had Catelyn Tully looked on the night of her wedding? How had she looked at her father? What would she have told Sansa, had they gotten more time?

Walking back to him, head held high, she asks, “Will you help loosen my ties? I cannot reach them.”

“We don’t—"

“Please, Jon.”

Relenting, he moves behind her. Jon’s touch is so light it is almost not there. He works fast and then steps back closer to the door, still looking like the boy he was, ready to flee. 

Sansa’s cheeks warm as she begins undressing. Wordlessly, she turns around for him to help with her corset. His fingers are a bit clumsy, but she suspects its because of his hurriedness. When he moves away, she notices his eyes are fixed upwards. 

Legs shaking, Sansa sets her garments on her chair. Unsure what to do with her small clothes, but knowing she does not want them ripped, Sansa discards them too. 

Jon lets his eyes wander down her neck towards her chest before tearing his gaze away, scowling at the floor. 

Sansa moves to the edge of the bed. There is no Reek in the corner. There is no Myranda in the hall. There is no him. There is only her and Jon. 

It’s with this resolve that she bends over, her cheek hitting the familiar furs, nose breathing in her scent. With cold hands, Sansa begins scrunching her shift up to her hips. _It is Jon. It’s alright_ , she reminds herself.

Jon makes a startled noise. “Sansa, _no._ ”

Her hands still, her garment pulled up to mid-thigh. Her lips tremble in confusion; she decides to keep her body bowed over the bed.

“Let’s slow down. _Please._ Sansa look at me.”

Sansa pulls herself up, back straight as she meets his gaze. Jon has never been good at masking his emotions, but this Jon she cannot read. 

He blinks several times. His eyes dart between her and the bed. Jon’s voice is almost pleading when he says, “You do not have to do that.”

She frowns. “I told you we must.”

“No. I-I mean it does not have to go like this. There is— you are not… I would not—” he stumbles over his words. 

Voice cracking, she says, “I don’t understand.”

Jon’s dark eyes alight with anger. His touch is gentle though as he pulls her into his arms and murmurs, “Oh, Sansa.”

They stand in the middle of the room, clutching each other like they had upon reuniting at Castle Black. 

When Jon draws back, Sansa sees his anger has faded. He asks, “May I show you? That is, if you let me help, the act will not pain you.”

_Do you have any faith in me at all?_

“Yes,” she whispers.

Jon nods. He begins undressing. He takes out his hair tie out and sets it near her jewelry; a sight so mundane that immeasurable fondness sweeps through her bones. 

Sansa decides to grant him the same politeness and averts her eyes. When he is down to his small clothes, he clears his throat. 

Her eyes widen as she takes him in. Jon is muscled, though she had always assumed this. His hips create a V shape that leads downwards. It is his scars though, that are most prominent. 

Jon steps hesitantly closer, reminding her of the bashful boy she once knew. Sansa eyes his lips. As if sensing her thoughts, he leans his head in. Her eyes slip closed as her mouth finds his. 

It is a tender kiss; it is the kind she should have gotten in earlier years. Curiosity peaked, Sansa presses her hands against his chest scars. Jon hisses and she jerks her hands away. 

“I’m sorry,” falters Sansa.

“I-It’s fine. You can touch me.”

Jon watches as she traces the two scars that run parallel in the center of his body. Fury boils within her. 

“I do not even know their names, yet I hate them as much as I’ve hated anyone,” admits Sansa, tearing her focus away from the wounds.

Jon’s eyes grow large and his lips part at her declaration. Then, he’s pulling her flush against him. Sansa squeaks in surprise, but says no more as he presses his lips against hers once more. 

“Will you lie down?” he requests, when they break away.

Sansa pushes herself back, falling against the soft furs. Her hair fans out around her. Her body’s nerves come alive, but she recognizes it is not from fear.

Jon gently pushes her legs apart. This time he lifts her shift up her legs, watching incase she voices discomfort. 

Sansa waits for him to climb atop her. Instead he lowers himself until his head lies between her knees. 

Snapping her legs shut in shock, she cries, “What are you doing?”

His eyes bore into hers. Jon replies, “This will make you feel good. I learned it helps.”

Eyes narrowed, Sansa lays back down. Jon’s breaths ghost over her intimate area. His fingers brush through her short curls. His hands move, hovering over her hipbones. 

The first lick causes her entire body to jolt. Pushing up onto her elbows, Sansa watches in horror and fascination as Jon presses his tongue to her center. 

There is a small nub he finds; he softly sucks on it. Sansa cries out, her fingers grabbing a fistful of his hair. Jon hums at the contact. 

Her legs are now shaking from what is nothing but pleasure. As Jon licks and sucks, noises of him against her fill the room. 

He swirls his tongue in a particular way and Sansa sees stars. 

“ _Jon._ Jon please,” she whimpers, despite not knowing what she is asking for. 

“That’s it, sweet girl,” he says, lips brushing against her center. “ _Let go._ ”

Her legs quiver as she hooks her left calf around him, heel digging into his bare back. Jon uses his fingers too now, rubbing and curling as he licks. His other hand reaches up, brushing against her nipple through the fabric.

Vibrations soar up and down Sansa’s entire body. Her shift sticks to her back. Hands clutching the furs, Sansa lets out a load moan. She must sound wanton, like a brothel woman, but it hardly matters at the moment. She feels a deep release unwind within her; it’s so powerful it almost startles her.

Her body begins to sag in contentment. Dazed, she watches Jon rise. His lips and part of his beard glisten with wetness. Embarrassed, Sansa realizes it’s from her. Jon does not seem displeased though as he wipes the back of his hand against his mouth. 

As her heart steadies, Sansa asks, “Do men like putting their mouths there?”

“Some.”

“And you do.”

Jon’s ears redden. “Aye, I do.” 

Glancing down, Sansa notices his small clothes are tented in a way it hadn’t been before.

Feeling bold, Sansa shrugs out of her shift before Jon can say otherwise. The cold air makes goosebumps fan across her skin. Her nipples already stand at attention.

His eyes fall to her breasts. Sansa did not believe his eyes could darken anymore, but they do. 

“You can touch me,” she echoes. 

Lips parting, he says, “I-I don’t—"

“Oh,” she murmurs, but he doesn’t hear. Mayhaps _he doesn’t want her._ The thought pricks at her heart, sharp like a needle.

“Should we—”

“Are you sure—”

“Come here,” she says in a tone more demanding and strong than she feels. 

Jon gulps as he removes his small clothes. Sansa eyes his manhood that sticks straight out. Her fingers wiggle, interested in knowing what he feels like. She coughs, hoping to distract from her blushing face.

Lying back, she lets her legs drop open in invitation. When his face hovers above hers, she meets his gaze. 

_You know I do._

“I trust you,” Sansa whispers. 

Jon presses his lips to hers. His hand reaches between them rubbing her nub. His fingers dip into the wetness still there. Pulling away, he looks down to position himself. He thrusts in slowly. They both gasp as he settles in her entirely. 

There is a momentary sting due to Jon’s thickness, but Sansa finds she does not mind. For the first time, a man inside her makes her feel full instead of hallow. 

One of Jon’s hands tangles into her hair while the other rests near her breast. Sansa lets her fingers curl around his shoulders, nails digging into his skin. 

His lower lip is pulled between his teeth, brows knitted. His cheeks bloom pink as his eyes flit over her face. It cannot be comfortable, Sansa thinks, but she knows he holds still out of fear and care for her. 

“Move,” she encourages. 

His hips tilt upwards; the feel of him—of _Jon_ —inside her makes her buck forwards. He groans, thrusting in and out at a tantalizing pace. 

Jon’s forehead rests against hers as he pushes deeper into her. Sansa’s nipples brush against his bare chest when she arches up, eliciting a cry from her. 

Jon’s hands rub up her thighs. His breathing is laborious as his hips jerk forward. He presses kisses against her cheeks.

“ _Sweet girl_ ,” he says. “So good—for me, to me.” 

The feeling is nothing Sansa could have expected. Her body tingles in joy at the new sensations. She finds she enjoys lifting up, pressing her hip bones against Jon’s as his length rubs against her inner walls. 

“Such a sweet, tight cunt. Feels so tight around me. So warm, _so good_ ,” mumbles Jon, mouth near her ear. 

He continues whispering filthy words, making her body heat with what she recognizes as lust. 

Their bodies are slick with sweat as they mold into each other. Her hands grasp his arms, squeezing and massaging. She wants to touch him everywhere. She wants everything he has to offer. She wants to give him everything.

“Jon, _please_ ,” she says. Sansa feels on the brink of something. She knows what it’s like to teeter on the edge and leap off. There is no fear now though, only _want._

“Do you want to come?” Jon asks, voice husky. 

Sansa whimpers in reply. There is an inexplicable carnal need to get closer to him as she snaps her hips upwards. 

Jon’s movements become harder and more urgent. Sansa seeks his mouth for another kiss, tongue flicking against his. 

He angles a different way, part of him brushing against her nub again. 

“ _Gods_ , Sansa,” he groans. “I’m going to come.”

She lets out a cry, tightening around his length. Nothing coherent slips through her mind, only _Jon, yes, yes Jon_ as the tight, hot coil inside her explodes. Her nails dig in, toes curling, as Sansa moans her husband’s name. 

She feels Jon twitch inside her. His hips spasm and he comes with a shout, pressing his body fully against hers. His warm seed fills her up.

He stays inside her as they pant, coming down from their highs. Jon’s eyes have shut and Sansa seizes the opportunity to take all of him in. 

_Hers._ All hers.

Jon’s eyes open. Something passes over his face, but then it’s gone. He presses a chaste kiss to her jaw before rolling off of her. 

His body detached from hers immediately reignites her longing. Sansa shifts, head turning so she can look at him. 

“I have not harmed you, have I, my lady?” he asks, avoiding her gaze.

Sansa frowns. “Of course not!”

He quiets, then eventually says, “We should sleep.”

“But we—” she stops. “Is that what you want?”

She rubs her thighs together, waiting for an answer. It shocks her, realizing that she wishes for Jon to climb atop her and take her again. 

“Today has been long. We should try and sleep some,” reiterates Jon. 

Sansa’s gaze drifts to the door. Turning back, she finds Jon’s eyes on her, tracking her movements. 

“Do you wish me to leave?” he asks, eyeing the door now. 

“No,” she asserts. “No, I do not.”

They lie on their backs in quiet. Sansa presses her eyes shut, hoping the fluttering of her heart settles.

Jon’s hand covering hers makes her eyes fly open. He says nothing, but squeezes her hand in a soothing gesture. 

Letting sleep lull her in, Sansa thinks of Jon and his filthy words and soft skin. _All hers._

— — 

Sansa wakes to the feel of warm air against her neck. For a moment, her body stiffens in alarm. Blinking at the light that streams in, her slender fingers reach out, brushing against the edge of the bed. 

She is a married woman again. She is still Sansa Stark. Perhaps, these two things were always meant to be together. 

Wiggling her toes, Sansa flushes as they brush against skin. With careful patience, Sansa draws back the furs. In the night Jon managed to slide his leg between hers, their ankles crossed. His hand lays against her thigh, knuckles pressed against her skin and palm upturned. 

Her lips are chapped and she licks them, glancing around. Shifting onto her back, Sansa realizes she is not discreet as Jon begins moving.

Jon looks at her through hooded lids. “ _Sans_ ,” he whispers, though it comes out somewhat befuddled. 

His fingers trail up to her waist, eyes squinting as he regards her. Wiping his hand down his face seems to awaken him fully. Jon huffs, pushing himself near the opposite edge of the bed. 

“I—" he stops. “Have you been awake long?”

He’s sitting up and leaning against the headboard; his scars are peaking at her. 

“Hardly. I-I’ve been sleeping better since we’ve been back north. This was a decent night of sleep.”

Jon’s hands tighten into fists. “I’m so sorry you had to return there. The nightmares… did they come back?”

Sitting up, the sheets fall around Sansa’s hips. Jon’s gaze drops to her breasts, cheeks redder as he glances away. 

Wrapping her arms around herself, more so in comfort, Sansa replies, “They were different. And none came to pass.” 

Jon nods, but his troubled look doesn’t leave him.

Wishing to move on, she asks, “Shall we break our fast?”

— — 

“Come in,” Sansa calls, as a soft knock sounds on her solar door. 

Ser Davos enters, nodding. His hand clutches several scrolls. Holding them out to her, he says, “I apologize for gettin’ you back working so soon after your wedding, Lady Stark.”

“Duty commands us all,” she replies. “What news have you?”

“Well, it seems Lord Tarly is making good speed as he travels to Winterfell from Horn Hill. He leaves his sister Lady Talla and his mother in charge. I suppose with Samwell being here, we should expect good relations.”

“We hope. After all, Ser Bronn is now lord paramount. It is essential we forge good alliances with him as well.”

“Aye, you’re right. If he sits on your brother’s council, perhaps you hold even more sway due to ties.”

Sansa frowns. She remembers the swellsword would often dine in her shared chamber with Tyrion. He would have his feet propped up, boots scuffing the table, as he poured himself more wine; Tyrion cared not, for he was too caught up in Master of Coin business and family squabbles. Bronn may have even held a fondness for Tyrion, but he was cordial to her as his employer’s wife. That bond between them seemed fractured, Sansa had noticed. He had chosen a Lannister before winter came— and it was the wrong one.

“I do not believe that type of loyalty is important to Ser Bronn,” says Sansa. “Still, we must begin a correspondence. We must feel out how generous the leader of the Reach is.”

“Of course. Then, there’s the news of Greyworm.”

Folding her hands on her lap, she asks, “Yes?”

“He has been spotted near Naath. It seems the Unsullied intend to settle there. That is all reported.”

“Good. I-I trust my brother would alert me, should anyone decide to return in order to cause harm to Jon.”

“Speaking of your brother and Jon… King Bran’s coronation went smoothly. It seems now the Six Kingdoms may rebuild. We need a coronation here soon, my lady.”

Sansa licks her lips. Glancing out the window, she sees Gilly and Little Sam. Hands pressing into her stomach, Sansa faces Davos again. 

“I understand. Before he departed, Lord Baratheon made two crowns based on designs I had given him. They have been ready. The lords are ready. We need only clear the hall, ser.”

“Gendry— er, Lord Baratheon— made them?”

Sansa nods. Rising, she heads towards her drawers. “In fact, he made something else as well. Along with a message.” 

Her fingers clasp the object, skirts swooshing as she approaches the older man. “He is quite disappointed he could not give you this himself.”

Laying her palm flat, Sansa holds out the Hand pin. She knows her good-uncle wore one for many years, though she’d never met him. She had seen the pin twice on Lord Tyrion. The first time Sansa saw the pin on Lord Eddard, her chest had puffed with pride. 

“My lady—”

“Please wear it. This pin… it deserves what it may never have had. Gendry made this because Jon wishes it. Because I wish it. I did not have much faith in you when we first met, tis true. I am a slow learner,” she says, pressing the pin into his hands. “Deceitful, harmful men have worn these pins over the years. Let someone good don it now.”

Davos’s eyes have gone glassy as he slips the pin on. Sansa’s fingers reach out, brushing against it for a brief moment. She isn’t sure, but she believes they are with two different people right now. 

Sansa imagines he sees a young girl with scarring along one side of her face. And Sansa, she sees—

_“Being Hand of the King is an enormous honor, is it not, father?”_

_“Aye, Sansa, it is.”_

_They leave for King’s Landing tomorrow and she is ready to burst with excitement. Tilting her head, she tries to imagine the shiny pin on her father’s chest._

_Smiling, she whispers, “King Robert could not have asked someone better.”_

Her hand falls away, back to her side. “Wear it well, Ser Davos.”

He steps back, no longer with a princess but a future queen. “I will,” he answers. “Hand of the King _and_ Queen.”

As he exits, Sansa throws herself back into the chair. Hunching forward, she allows tears to slide down her cheeks. Another knock causes her to quickly wipe them away.

“Yes?”

“It’s me,” announces Jon.

“Come in.”

He walks with unsure steps into her solar. His eyes find hers, expression hardening. “You’ve been crying,” he states.

Sansa waves her hand in dismissal. “It’s nothing.”

“ _Sansa._ ”

“It isn’t,” she says. Wiping her eyes once more, she continues, “Since you are here though, I wish to show you something. The coronation must happen within the week, I think. Ser Davos has discussed it with me. Many of the lords still reside here. It needn’t have all the pomp the South uses, but it must be done.”

“I understand.”

Sansa pulls out two crowns. Branches meant to be a heart tree curve in all directions, threading together; as they wind around they morph into two direwolf heads facing each other. Jon’s crown is a larger identical version. 

“Crowns?” Jon holds the crown close to his eyes as he inspects the detail.

“Well, you did not have one last time. I want this to be a fresh start— for us all. And I do not want them to forget for a moment _who you are._ ”

“A king,” he murmurs, skeptical of himself. 

Sansa scoffs. “A Stark.”

He eyes her, even as his thumb continues to pet the wolves’ heads. He says, “You’re too kind to me.”

“As a wife should be,” she says lightly. 

“You know I will never demand anything from you, right?” he questions after a pause.

Sansa folds her arms. “Are you referencing something in particular, Jon?”

Scratching his beard, Jon nods. His face looks pained. “I—that is, well, I want you to understand Sansa that, well, I do not expect anything in the marriage bed from you.”

“What?” is all she manages to say. 

“I do not expect—”

“I heard you. That just… it isn’t possible. You must understand the necessity of an heir. For the realm’s security, our people’s, and our own.”

Jon splutters. “There are other ways. Bran cannot have children, yet he sits king.”

“Elections may work in the South, but not here. We all know how stubborn and set in their ways Northern folk are.”

“Then we’ll make them understand.”

“It will do no good. Perhaps things will stall, but in the end nothing will change. I thought you understood this.”

“I— but _why would I?_ It was the marriage, the giving up of my Targaryen heritage, or the Wall. Those were the choices.”

Sansa sucks in a breath. The lesser of two evils— is that what he sees this as? Her hands smooth her skirts in a desperate attempt for control. 

“If there is never an heir, nothing is secure. We need a babe and so… so that means being intimate. Please Jon.”

She sees the moment he relents. His deepened frown relaxes, though his body remains tense. “Alright. I-I never want to hurt you, Sansa. You shouldn’t have to relive _him_ at night.”

Shaking her head, she replies, “Jon, I once told you you’re nothing like the king that Joffrey was. It’s true. And you are nothing like the man that Ramsay Bolton was. Do you understand?”

“Aye,” he whispers. Something in his gaze changes for just a moment, too short for Sansa to decipher. “We do not always have to do it the same way, after all.”

Sansa blinks. “What do you mean?”

His ears and cheeks tinge pink. He raises his eyebrows, hoping she’ll understand. When Sansa stays silent, he replies, “Coupling.”

“ _Oh._ You mean it is not always done the same?” she asks, leaning forward.

Sansa and Jeyne had often giggled about what it would be like to get bedded by their lord husbands. If Septa had heard they would’ve gotten endless scoldings. She did not though, so Jeyne filled their minds with stories she had heard. Some were amusing, some were odd, but they left a curiosity in Sansa as she’d rub her thighs together. They were all just stories then, nothing real to either of them.

“That’s what I mean,” Jon answers. 

Trying to pull up the stories from the past, Sansa’s own cheeks enflame. “Well… alright.”

Jon says nothing, but moves into the seat across from her. He pulls his gloves off, tossing them onto the corner of her desk. He runs a hand through his hair which remains untamed today. 

“Is that not why you came here?” Sansa asks, confused.

“No,” he awkwardly chuckles. “I’ve been talking with Tormund. Most of the free folk injured in the battle are now recovered. After the coronation, they will begin their travels back beyond the Wall.”

“They do not wish to stay? There are lands… and we have lost so many, some of noble birth too. House Umber is eradicated. After all the aid they have given, would they not want something?”

“You would give them Last Hearth? Bear Island?” Jon asks, eyebrows raised in disbelief.

“No. It would be unkind to thrust the positions of liege lord upon them when they know not what it entails. Running a household is no easy feat— Mother made sure I understood that. There are lands though that could be farmed. Winter town is still rebuilding. Everyone is trying to figure out what we have and what we do not.”

“Believe me,” says Jon. “There is no place they wish to return more than beyond the Wall.”

He glances away, a far-off look etched on his face. Sansa purses her lips. 

“They see you as a king,” she states.

“Because I have not asked them to bend the knee. They know I will not. They know my— you will not.”

Sansa nods. Moving to leave, she rubs her thumb over his knuckles. “I don’t believe that is the sole reason they see you like that.”

— — 

Her maid brushes her hair with languid movements. With swift fingers she twists portions of Sansa’s hair into two braids that hang on either side of her face. The rest of her hair flows loosely down her back. 

“You look beautiful, my lady,” she whispers. 

Sansa glances in the mirror. Neither Robb nor Jon had prepared for a coronation, it had just happened. She knows Bran experienced this; yet he’s not quite her Bran anymore, so she wonders if he had any nerves at all. 

Staring in the mirror, Sansa sees a woman. 

The dress she wears is blue with fish scales on the sleeves. Sansa thinks of Mother. She thinks of Aunt Lysa and her wicked grin. She thinks of Uncle Edmure and his son. She thinks of Riverrun which she had dared not visit on her travel south or back north. She thinks of Mother who always thought Sansa of being a capable queen. 

The train drags softly against the floor as she walks down the hall.

_I am Sansa Stark of Winterfell. This is my home._

As she enters the hall, the men drop to their knees and the women bow their heads. Ahead of her sit two chairs with direwolves carved into them. They are not ostentatious like the Iron Throne; Sansa wants no reminders of the kings and queens she saw in the South. 

Coming to stand in front, Sansa looks out at the men and women gathered in the great hall. They remain kneeling as Jon enters; he nods at some as he quickly moves to stand next to her.

The crown hovers over her head. “I declare Sansa of the House Stark, first of her name, Queen in the North.”

She glances at Jon first, his eyes shining with pride. His own crown is gently pulled out.

“I declare Jon of the House Stark, King in the North.” The crown is placed on his head. “Long may they reign.”

Together they sit. The men hold their swords up, cheering. The women smile. Brienne and Podrick stand to her right, proudly grinning. Sansa spots Gilly holding Little Sam who claps his hands in excitement.

“The Queen and King in the North!”

Jon turns to Sansa, smiling. He holds a hand out and she slips her fingers through his. 

_“Your grace.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (in order of appearance)
> 
> Direct quote from "Game of Thrones" season 7 episode 3 "The Queen's Justice" written by David Benioff and D.B. Weiss
> 
> Direct quote from "Game of Thrones" season 8 episode 1 "Winterfell" written by Dave Hill
> 
> Direct quote from "Game of Thrones" season 5 episode 6 "Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken" written by Bryan Cogman
> 
> check out my Tumblr where Jonsa rightfully owns my soul


	4. Jon II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) There's no way to even begin this but just know I am so sorry for leaving you guys hanging for months!!! Not updating since July was something I didn't intend. I had a crazy schedule. That combined with writer's block really set me back. Thank you so much for your patience! Thank you to those sticking with me! I'm so happy that you're invested in this story and want more. I can't promise a regular updating schedule, but the next chapter will be a shorter wait. My classes have been moved online. I don't know how bad things will get here, or if they will, but it looks like an upside in all this is that I should have more writing time. Please stay safe with this virus spreading and take care!! 
> 
> 2) Since you've been waiting like a million years, I really hope this chapter does justice to these characters and this story. I am really excited about it. I had an original draft that I scrapped because this is so much better. I really wanted to stay away from 24/7 mopey Jon. That said, he's obvs going through shit. So, hopefully this provides good insight into all the things he's feeling. I had a lot of fun exploring him, especially since s8 did him no favors. Hopefully, you like reading this.
> 
> 3) ahh it's not just smut. Don't worry, there's smut, but oh look there's a little plot too? Who even am I? I'll probably be picking up the pacing with this story a bit because this isn't going to be some 20 long fic (for my own sanity). There's definitely a lot that needs to be resolved and still happen. I originally said this fic would be around 7 chapters. I'm not sure now. I've begun chapter 5, so we'll see where that takes me!
> 
> 4) I have nothing more to say besides endless apologies. Thank you for your interest in this fic, lovely people. Stay safe. I'll rant more about my writing on my Tumblr. comments & kudos infinitely appreciated!!!
> 
> 5) Disclaimer: I do not own anything related to the HBO series "Game of Thrones" or the book "A Song of Ice and Fire" by George R. R. Martin. Title credit to Charlotte Brontë's, "Jane Eyre".

It’s a bit despicable, Jon thinks, what he’s done the last several mornings. He wakes up hard, from his dreams and from Sansa’s arse pressed against his front. They often end up entangled in the night; they peel their limbs away in the morn, not a word said about it. 

Perhaps this is what fuels his dreams. Jon can’t remember dreaming initially after the Red Woman brought him back. He rarely slept and, when he did, he saw black. Leading up to the war against the Dead, nightmares plagued him. Terrible visions of Arya and Bran being consumed by wights, their cries outmatched by the monsters, shook him to his core. Winterfell struck down to pieces of rubble with bodies strewn about scared him. One nightmare stood out though because it happened many times. He would see Sansa—in one of her pretty dresses she’d sewn herself, with her hair braided like the day they were reunited— in the godswood falling to her knees, consumed by fire. A dragon circling above, a small hand gripping his wrist to prevent him helping Sansa, and screams filling the air. 

None of it happened. They are all fine, Jon reminds himself. His mind is trying to remind him of that because now Jon _dreams_. 

Jon dreams of his lady wife. He imagines her on top of him, head thrown back in ecstasy, tits bouncing with each movement. He imagines them in a secret alcove of the castle. He gets to hike up her skirts and put his mouth on her right then and there. She’d wind her hand through his hair; she _likes_ his curls, after all. She would say his name over and over because it’s him— _only ever him_ — making her writhe in pleasure. 

He’d put a babe in her. A son, if that’s what would truly please her. And his son would know both his parents and be loved by them both. He’d have siblings. They’d never stop having babes. They would stay in the North, where Starks belonged. Their children would pet and play with Ghost until the wolf was too old to do so. Sansa and him would couple, until they were too old to do so. They would love each other, the way a lord husband and lady wife should. 

A part of him, the cynic, warns these dreams can never fully happen. Sansa, a creature of duty, has married Jon because she loves him but as the brother their, _her_ lord father raised. Once they have an heir, why would she continue coupling with him? A spare might be necessary, he thinks. It’s an unsavory thought to begin with though and Jon pushes it away. 

Pulling himself out of his spiraling thoughts, Jon grabs a rag. His cock has been lying flaccid; the remnants of what he’s done lay in strings along his stomach. 

He rubs his skin with rough, decisive movements. A renewed sense of shame threatens consuming him. He can’t make it one lewd dream without taking himself in hand to the thought of Sansa. _Sansa_ who takes this all in stride despite the fact she must detest him on some level, for taking his husbandly rights just as Bolton did. Sure, it’s for an heir, except that that is not all it is for Jon. It never could have been. 

He hears rustling in their bedroom and tries to compose himself. He’s a king now, just like his little brother, just like Robb once was. Just like Jon himself was what feels like a short lifetime ago. This time, he will not fail. 

— — 

As Jon walks into the solar the swishing of skirts draws his attention as a maid exits. She has left food. 

“Was that Gilly?”

Sansa is turned away from him. “No. She shouldn’t do much work in her condition. It won’t be too long until the babe comes.”

Scrunching his nose, Jon tries to remember just how much time has passed. 

Sansa shifts in her chair and faces him. Her cheeks are reddened but it’s clear she has no intention of explaining her appearance. Jon’s mind buzzes and he settles his face into nonchalance as he takes a seat. 

“Good morning,” she says. 

“I hope I didn’t wake you.” 

“No. There’s quite a lot that needs to be done anyway. I can’t sleep the day away.”

“You should be able to,” replies Jon.

Laughing as she butters her bread, Sansa asks, “Then what kind of queen would I be?”

He watches the way she swipes the knife against the food. Her long, elegant fingers grip the bread and he wishes it were—

“Jon?”

“A good one, still,” he answers. 

Feeling his own face heat up, he grabs his goblet of water. Gods, he’s losing it over how a woman holds and butters her bread. He can imagine the teasing he would endure from Robb and Theon. _Finally thinking about girls? It’s about time you thought about more than food, fighting, and your own damn hair._

His chest tightens. 

“The rebuilding is going at a solid pace. Things could always move faster, but people are still recovering,” says Sansa. 

She’s unaware of his troubled mind. Or, like they've had to do for so long, she’s pushed her own sufferings far away so that they can work. 

“Wintertown has improved. Over half of it is rebuilt. The food sheds are holding up well.”

“I’d like to see it. With things so busy here I haven’t had the opportunity to visit since efforts first began.”

“I will go with you. I, um, that is if you’d like.”

Sansa hums, offering him a small smile. “Of course.”

She takes another bite of bread and gazes off in the distance. Her hair is loose around her shoulders. It reminds him of how she would wear it when she was quite young. Before her days of trying to copy southron styles, Sansa would let her shiny locks hang down her back. 

Their childhood has been on his mind more and more. Part of it, he supposes, is that Bran now sits as king and the distance feels endless. When Jon and Sansa had departed King’s Landing, she told a story about one of many times when Bran was climbing the walls of Winterfell. She missed that boy, Sansa had said. She missed little Bran that would play and giggle with Rickon. 

Jon also missed Arya. She had always wanted to explore. It made sense that she would take an opportunity to see what else was out there. At any mention of Arya, Sansa would change the subject after a few minutes. Jon thinks Sansa feels betrayed in some sense by her sister. After all, Sansa wanted the Starks in the North.

“Is the food to your liking?”

Jon blinks. “Yes.”

“The kitchen is still understaffed because of the war,” she explains. Biting her lip, Sansa raises her fork to her mouth before setting it down again. “I was wondering if we could discuss something openly, as husband and wife.”

Jon places his hands on his knees, nails digging in. “Aye, of course.”

“It’s just that you said coupling could happen in _different ways_ , yet we haven’t tried them…”

Jon sucks in a breath. Her blue eyes dart from him to his food. “Y-You would like to?”

“I-I don’t believe there is reason not to. I’m not with child yet. Mayhaps something different could help?” Sansa ponders.

Their duty. Of course. 

“Well I can’t say for sure, but I’m willing to try,” replies Jon.

“ _Willing._ It’s settled then. Good.” 

Sansa takes another swig of her drink and Jon feels the conversation drying up. 

Licking his lips, Jon opens his mouth, prepared to say anything that will get his wife to stay. Sansa eyes him, her mouth in a firm line. 

“I should prepare for my meeting with the lords later on. I will see you later, Jon.”

As soon as the door shuts behind her, Jon groans. He has fucked up again, but he isn't even sure how. 

Shoveling the rest of the food into his mouth, Jon heads out. 

— — 

The Great War was won, but a small part of Jon still feels on edge. He thinks he might always feel that way. A hand at the ready, Long Claw at his hip just in case there’s something. It—the idea of something, he supposes—bites at the edges of his calmness. 

As a child Jon never expected he’d go through so many battles. A lonely life was what he prepared for. Even when Robb talked of being Lord of Winterfell, with Jon at his side as they tackled everyday issues, Jon had doubted that future. Robb had also never discussed these plans with Lady Catelyn present, so mayhaps his brother had doubts too. 

He thinks of the Wall. What remains of it, anyway. The thought of never seeing it again is odd. It’s not necessarily that Jon misses it, or at least he doesn’t think that’s it. It’s more that Jon’s world revolved around Castle Black and the Wall as much as Winterfell had in his childhood. He thinks of Grenn and Edd. 

Maybe it’s that his fate had been so easy to accept there. He knew he’d wear black and be a brother the rest of his days. And now there’s no need for _any_ brothers. 

Jon’s mind is muddled with these thoughts. He knows Sansa would listen, if he wished to voice whatever he was feeling. It doesn’t seem right though, to complain, when she is the one truly sacrificing her life. 

And it’s not that he’s ungrateful, he knows this. The wolf crown she had gifted him, that sits on his desk, floats in his mind. _It feels a bit flashy, but he wears it on occasion for her._ It’s just that Jon feels as though there’s so much still to process. Yet, they must move forward. And Sansa has managed to be an excellent queen, despite all that’s warring inside her. So, he must too.

— —

The training yard is a sad sight compared to the old days. Men in worn bandages with faded bruises congregate. And, yet, these are the lucky ones that have both legs to stand on; they can talk and joke for a while without tiring themselves. 

Young boys hold small wooden swords. One boy wipes his brown hair back with his hand, sweat lining his brow. _Like Bran._

“Your grace,” they greet. Older men bow. 

Among those in the training yard is Brienne. Jon raises his eyebrows in surprise. The knight follows Sansa almost everywhere, a hardened scowl usually on her face. 

“Ser Brienne.”

“Your grace.”

“You are quite popular among the Northmen, I see,” says Jon, a small smile on his face.

“She beat _the Hound_ ,” cries a young boy as he dashes past.

“I’ve only done my duty,” she replies, shifting uncomfortably.

“I understand you were training my sis—cous—” Jon pauses. “ _Arya._ ”

Brienne has a look in her eye that Jon can’t quite read. She allows a small grin though. “Yes. Lady Arya is quite skilled with a sword, dagger, everything.”

“I wish I could’ve seen you two. When she was younger, Arya always liked watching Robb and I. And Theon. She was egging us on more even than our little brothers.” 

“I can imagine that.”

“When she returns, I’m sure she’ll be eager to continue training.”

Brienne’s smile thins. “When she returns. Yes. Of course.”

A moment of awkward envelops the two. The sounds of metal clashing the only noise made. Jon feels his heart beat harder.

“I know I thanked you once. It can’t be said enough though. Thank you for taking care of my— Sansa. And Arya.” Jon wipes a hand down his face. “When Robb was in the Riverlands. When I was at the Wall. Even after… just once more. Thank you.”

Brienne’s cheeks are pink. She isn’t quite smiling. Jon had heard, through Sansa, that Brienne was close with Jaime Lannister. So, recently, she hasn’t had much to smile about, he knows. Still, there’s this moment of happiness that seems to sweep through her. 

“I-I would do it again, your grace.”

They both shift towards the training yard. A man, not much younger than Jon, holds a sparring sword in his hand with burns that will probably scar. He has no choice though, since his other hand is gone. His opponent is another young man who looks malnourished. Jon makes a note to review rations and crops with Sansa. 

They have a temporary master-of-arms. _He thinks of Ser Rodrick and his execution by Theon, and he shuts that away because it’s too much trying to reconcile the Theon he knew, the Theon he didn’t, and the Theon he met._ He’ll speak with him and start the process of finding a permanent man. 

There is peace and mayhaps it’s not so essential. Jon sees burnt bodies when he closes his eyes at night though. He sees icy blue eyes. He sees Sansa with her faded bruises and cut lip. And they can’t _not_ train. The Great War is over, but they can’t just stop forever. Even if it’s easy and half-hearted for now, it’s still something. 

“Your grace!” 

It’s one of the gate guards. Arthyr, Jon thinks is his name. 

“What is it?” 

“There’s— at the gate. Someone’s here to see you.”

It’s not a threat, as the boy is grinning with excitement. Several people around them have stopped talking; their curious gazes follow Jon. Brienne trails a bit behind, on Sansa’s behalf but also his. 

There is already a small crowd as Jon approaches the entrance. Several older women whisper among themselves, shooting glances at whoever has arrived. 

Jon hears sniffles. People around begin noticing him and nod their heads, parting and making room.

Ahead of him, Jon sees a woman in a dull blue dress. Her hair looks tied back rather hastily. _Gilly._ Her back is to Jon, arms around—

Gilly pulls away and there he is. He looks haggard from traveling. His hair’s a bit too long. His face looks a tiny bit hollower from all that’s happened. It’s him though.

Jon has began striding towards him without realizing. 

It’s Gilly that Jon heard sniffling as she wipes her nose with a handkerchief that’s so prettily patterned it has to be Sansa’s work. Jon stumbles for a moment before facing him again. 

The man wobbles slightly as he sinks down on one knee. 

“Your grace.”

“ _Sam._ Arise, Sam Tarly.”

Jon outstretches his arms to the person who feels like his only brother left. Falling into them with a huff, Sam murmurs, “Hello, Jon.”

— — 

The door of Jon’s solar opens and Sam scurries in, a tired smile on his face. 

“I’m not stealing you away from Gilly, am I?”

“No, no. She’s resting. It won’t be much longer.”

“She’s comfortable?” asks Jon. Babes and preparing for them, it’s all foreign to Jon. 

“Yes, quite,” exclaims Sam. “Your wife has been so helpful with arrangements and with Little Sam.” 

Jon shifts. 

“I’m sorry,” says Sam, misinterpreting his friend’s discomfort. “ _Queen_ Sansa. It doesn’t feel quite real yet. The two of you, you’re royalty now.”

“No. I mean, Sansa and I wouldn’t mind it if you don’t use our titles. We are friends.” 

Sam cocks his head. “Was it that I referred to her as your wife?”

“I—”

“I am sorry I missed the wedding. I very much wished I could have been there. Gilly said it was romantic.”

Romantic. Sansa in her white flowing gown. She could’ve fit into one of the songs she loved as a girl, it’s true. But the two of them?

Jon grimaces. “I’m not sure it was that.”

Sam frowns. He takes a sip of wine and rests the goblet on his belly. “Something is troubling you.”

Jon lets out a groan and Ghost bats an eye at him from the corner. He doesn’t even know what he is feeling. If there is anyone that can help, it’s Sam. 

“I don’t know what I’m doing here.”

“You’re leading the people. You’re King in the North.”

“No. I mean, yes. But I don’t know what I’m doing here with Sansa.” 

“Well,” Sam slowly says. “You’re living together and leading together. You’re the Starks of Wintefell. You’re family. You’re a family.” 

A family. That’s different. A family. Something Jon wished for as child, before he realized it may not happen. A family. Something he gave up when he took the black. A family. Sansa. 

“She deserves better, Sam.”

“When we first met, you mentioned how your sister was off to become queen. Meaning, she’d become queen over us one day. But Joffrey Baratheon was her betrothed and, well, we know now at least some of how terrible he was for everyone. He was her future until he wasn’t. And… you’re her future now. She’s lucky for that.”

“Lucky?”

“You’re not King Joffrey.”

_You’re as far from Joffrey as anyone I ever met._

“I know—”

“You love her. Which is more than could be said for him. You love each other and protect each other. That is lucky.”

“When they left south, I hugged Arya, pulled her into my arms. I gave her Needle then. She was so tiny and… she giggled so much in those days.”

Sam nods, encouraging his friend to continue.

“Sansa was going south too. I knew she was happy about that. I had seen the way she looked at Joffrey and him at her. Robb complained and complained. And, when they were off, I said ‘goodbye, Sansa’ and that was that. And she said ‘goodbye’ because that’s all a bastard half brother was worth.”

Jon refills his goblet. “I don’t resent that. It’s— my point is that she’s always looked at me as a sibling and now, I’m her lord husband. All she ever wanted was a pretty, Southron man.”

“Don’t you think that Sansa, of your childhood days, is different than the Queen Sansa before us?”

“I know she is. But that doesn’t mean her heart suddenly wants _me._ And why should she? We’re— it’s not right.”

Sam shakes his head. He gazes off at the wall for a moment, deep in thought. When he looks at Jon again, his face breaks into a sympathetic, gentle smile. “I wish you’d let yourself be happy, Jon.”

Happy. A feeling that wanes and waxes like the moon for Jon since he left Winterfell the first time. With Sansa, yes, he’s happy. To profit over anything other than Sansa’s own happiness is wrong though. _She wouldn’t even face him at first this morning._

“I’m not sure that’s something that can be created. It’s just there or it isn’t.”

“Creating. Finding. They’re not unalike.”

Wanting the topic to cease, Jon responds, “I’m happy you’re here.”

Knowing when to put things away, Sam nods. “Hornhill, it wasn’t a place I wished to stay. Of course I miss my mother and sister. She’s to marry soon. But, well, when you’ve been north for so long, does it make you want to stay?”

“Yes.”

“I know I was at Oldtown before all of _this._ The citadel… I don’t think I can go back. The plan was always to return north though. Gilly couldn’t travel south even if she wanted.”

“There’s a place for you here. Always,” Jon says. 

“I just want to be of use.”

— — 

Sansa tells him that Sam and Gilly will sup alone. She must be tired. There’s a fresh pile of scrolls that sit on her desk. A map with small dashes lays out in front of her. 

“Gilly must be happy Sam’s returned.”

“She’s very excited to show him what we worked on. I hope she gives herself enough credit. Her stitching has far improved. She asked for help with the embroidering though.”

“What is it?”

“Clothes for the babe. We’re not yet finished with the big piece.”

Sansa walks over to a corner, pulling out tools and then unfolding material. 

“A blanket?”

“Yes,” she beams. “And you mustn’t tell, Jon.”

“Of course I wouldn’t.”

Sansa scoffs, but she’s grinning as she lets him inspect it. Parts of the blanket are intricately stitched, a beautiful work that spins from years of lessons and practice. The other part of the blanket is less refined. It has a clunky look to it, though it’s clear, even to Jon’s eye, that much dedication has been put in. 

“It’s wonderful, Sansa.”

Her laugh shoots through him as she begins folding up the item once more. “Gilly has had so much time on her hands. She all but begged me to teach her. No one ever much cared for my sewing knowledge. I—it’s nice to share that with her.”

Not wanting to see her down, Jon teases, “Septa Sansa?”

Sansa scowls, a look he remembers often from their youth. This time though it’s displaced by the brightness in her eyes. “Ha. I could never be a septa. At least, not _now_ anyway.”

Jon blinked, unsure of Sansa’s meaning. What was she referencing? Their marriage?

“I think Robb would have preferred that.” 

He isn’t sure _why_ he’s said that, but it’s out there. 

Sansa’s eyebrows raise. “You’re right. Robb would’ve kept me holed up in Winterfell the rest of my days, for protection, if he could.”

“Would that be so bad? To hide away from the world?”

_Do you remember that cave? We should’ve stayed in that cave._

Something crosses over Sansa’s face, but then she bats her lashes and it’s gone. She shrugs. 

“Then I wouldn’t have known the world. Of course I wish life had been— _easier_ , or, well more just. And I wish we’d never left for King’s Landing. But that doesn’t mean I would choose to hide forever. If I hid away, I would stay as silly as I was. As silly as the ladies I met in the South. Does that make sense?”

“You were never silly.”

She scoffs. “Not even as a child?”

Jon thinks of the tiny flowers she would weave into her hair. The dolls, in their many bright dresses, that she would cary in her arms. At least, until she got too old for that. The way she would play the harp, that once seemed big as her. The songs she’d sing and the way her face would light up as her parents and big brother cheered for her. The longing sighs she’d let out during romantic parts of a story.

“You were never silly,” he repeats. “You were Sansa.”

She lets out a shuddering breath, so quiet Jon almost misses it.

Without a word, she breaks the distance between them as she pulls him into an embrace. She nuzzles into the crook of his neck. Warm air hits his skin. 

They stand together, holding each other.

Jon thinks of Sam’s earlier words. It isn’t romantic, not really. It just is. 

When Sansa lets go, she gives him another unreadable look. Flicking imaginary dust off her dress, she asks, “Shall we have supper?”

He nods silently and they make their way to the hall.

Supper is odd in the sense that Jon knows what’s coming after, so it’s hard thinking of everything else. They have the companionship of the others though. Not for the first time, Jon is thankful that Davos is ready to lead the conversation. 

The Onion Knight speaks of earlier meetings that he attended with Sansa. He tells a story of when he was a little boy in Flea Bottom. 

Jon hadn’t known exactly where Flea Bottom was. He had probably passed through when he’d been south, but, after Daenerys, everything had been equally damaged. The destruction leveled King’s Landing into all looking the same. When Jon was there, it had smelled of ash and blood. 

Sansa, Podrick, and Brienne are all nodding along though; their memories of the South and that city engrained in them. They can conjure up the smell of Flea Botton, the kinds of people that were there, and the way it looked. 

Davos finishes his story with a smack of his hand on the table, pulling Jon from his thoughts. Sansa is grinning and Podrick outright laughing. Brienne has the smallest of smiles on her face; she meets Jon’s eyes before looking at Sansa. 

“Aye,” says Davos, chugging down his ale. “There’s nothin’ like livin’ in Flea Bottom. If Gendry were here he’d back me up. I’m sure the lad would have some tales.”

“I would’ve liked to hear some,” Podrick agrees quietly.

“But I’m sure there’s nothin’ like livin’ in _the_ castle though either,” adds Davos, looking between Sansa and Podrick.

If the older man wasn’t on his third helping of ale, Jon imagines he wouldn’t be so inquisitive. Davos’ brows are raised in interest. Sansa glances at Podrick. The young knight moves his food around his plate with his fork. 

Jon watches as Sansa gets this far-off look. Clearing her throat, she begins answering. 

“I could see the sea from my window. I could smell it, which was quite new compared to here. I would look out the window. Ships. I’d watch the ships. I’d pray on an edge, near the sea. Lady Margaery found me once… we’d sit in the gardens and eat and talk. It could still look pretty.”

It’s clear Sansa is finished speaking on the matter and Podrick jumps in with some comment about Tyrion and the library. 

Reaching under the table, Jon takes her hand and squeezes it. Her blue eyes bore into him, but she tilts her head in what he knows is thanks. 

Sansa’s smile reappears as supper wears on. She’s more quiet but her amusement is real as she listens to another one of Pod’s poor jokes. Brienne rolls her eyes at her apprentice’s antics, but it’s clear she’s enjoying him too. A moment of envy passes through Jon because Podrick Payne is so easily talkative and likeable. 

Eventually, Sansa rises. “I’m afraid I’m tired. It’s best if I retire for the night.”

“Shall I walk you back?” asks Jon.

“If you wish.”

Jon halts, before nodding. They bid goodnight and make their way to their chambers. People they pass nod and bow. 

Jon lets Sansa trail slightly ahead. Does she not wish for them to couple tonight? Has he misunderstood? Is she upset?

When they are finally in their room, Jon decides to break the silence. 

“Are we still, erm, should we try tonight?”

Sansa has already begun untying her hair. “Yes. That’s what we agreed on, wasn’t it?”

“Right. Yes.”

Sansa regards him for a moment; it’s that _look_ that Jon almost knows but also doesn’t. It reminds him of the way she’d look at them when they were young. They would break their fast and Jeyne Pool would whisper in Sansa’s ear. Jeyne fancied Robb, apparently. The girl would giggle and shoot looks. But, Sansa. Sansa would take that time to look at her older brother, and then look at him. It was as if he was a riddle that needed deciphering. Jeyne’s words would float in the air but Sansa would be focusing on _him._

It’s nothing like that and yet exactly like that.

Jon pulls his boots off slowly. He can hear rustling. The pound of his heart rings in his ears as he strips down to his small clothes. 

“I—I trust you’ll guide me. That is, on what I should do,” interrupts Sansa. 

Jon turns around so that he faces her once more. He feels young and she looks young, in these moments. 

“Let me just…” he gestures to his remaining garment. 

By the time he’s moved to their bed, Sansa stands near, the furs only partially hiding her nude body. 

His throat bobs as Jon lays down. The wind is all they hear. 

“I’d get you ready first, if you would like,” Jon whispers. 

Her lips part. For a brief moment, Jon thinks she’ll refuse. Then, she drops the furs, and settles onto the bed next to him. 

His fingers find her center. She’s damp there already. There’s no time to think on this though and he sets to work.

When he finally pulls away, Sansa’s letting out labored breaths. He gives her a moment, heart hammering again as he knows what he’s suggesting.

“If you would, uh, sit astride me. If, well, I was a horse.”

Sansa edges closer, her mouth pinched in a way that he knows means she’s hiding a smirk. Her composure is strong, as it’s had to been, as she climbs onto him.

Looking up at her from this angle is consuming. 

Jon’s cock is as hard as it’s ever been. He rubs up and down just once, knowing how ready he is to burst. 

Sansa lifts her hips and he holds his member steady. She had been looking at him, but now her focus goes downwards. They both watch as she sinks down on him.

A groan leaves him as he fills her up. Gods, how is he going to last like this?

“ _Oh_ ,” Sansa murmurs. Her hands reach out and she uses his torso as a brace. 

Jon watches her, his Sansa, as she lets the pleasure roll through her. It’s with careful movements that she begins thrusting against him. 

“Sansa,” he pleads. 

Her lips are parted, face flushed, as she presses her hips down on him. Jon moves his hands onto her waste, guiding her back and forth. 

“Seven hells,” she moans. “ _Jon._ ”

His fingers press harder into her soft skin. Without thinking, he asks, “Do you like that, sweetling?”

Sansa’s rocking back and forth harder now, but she nods, hands squeezing against arms. 

Jon moves his hands further, helping her rise up just slightly and fall back down on his cock. The feeling of her, him inside her, it’s inexplicably everything. 

“You feel so good, Sansa. You’re so good.”

Sansa lets out a louder moan. His thumb finds her nub and he rubs slow circles. 

“ _Jon _. Please. Jon,” she cries.__

____

____

Sansa lets herself fall forwards. Her lips brush against his. Her hands caress his cheeks. Her finger traces the scar near his eye.

Lifting his hips, Jon begins thrusting back. The sound of their moans and skin hitting mixes with the wind.

He can feel her tighten around him, knows she’s close. He knows he’ll be close; the feel of her cunt greater than anything else he can recall.

“Faster,” Sansa says.

His thumb returns to her nub. His hips jerk more as she bounces and sways against him.

“I-I’m…” Sansa trails off, eyes squeezing shut.

“That’s it, darling, come” he whispers, unsure if she’s even listening.

She writhes on top of him and it sends Jon over the edge. With a groan, he lets his come fill her.

They’re panting as they lay together. Sansa’s body is draped over his; he’s still inside her but softening. He doesn’t care how long she stays atop him. 

When Sansa rolls off next to him, he lets out a quiet sigh.

“That was,” she starts. “I didn’t know coupling happened that way.”

Jon isn’t sure if lords and ladies couple that way. It must’ve happened in brothels, like the infamous one in King’s Landing. It perhaps happens in Dorne where they are freer. It matters not though because it’s their way, at least.

“Yes,” replies Jon, realizing he’s been silent too long.

Sansa too had been staring at the ceiling. She turns on her side though, facing him. Her eyes seem bright, he thinks. She leans in close and presses a kiss to his cheek

Pulling away, she says, “Mayhaps we’ve just made an heir.”

His stomach churns. An heir. Jon doesn’t fully understand what he’s feeling. He settles for replying, “Mayhaps.”

Jon can’t tell if his answer disheartens Sansa for she lays back down. There is complete silence now; their breathing has settled.

“I think,” says Sansa, sitting up. “We should do it once more. If this increases the chance of a babe.”

“I’m not certain it does. I-I mean does one know what works for sure?” 

Sansa glances away and then back at him. “If you’re _willing_ , I wish to try.”

His eyes trail from hers down, settling on her breasts with pink nipples standing at attention. Raising his gaze to hers, his face heats up.

“Alright,” Jon whispers.

Sansa nods. Her face begins flushing again. Peaking at him through her lashes, Jon almost sees a smile. She’s reaching for him though and he pulls her close again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (in order of appearance)
> 
> Direct quote from "Game of Thrones" season 7 episode 1 "Dragonstone" written by David Benioff and D.B. Weiss
> 
> Direct quote from "Game of Thrones" season 4 episode 9 "The Watchers on the Wall" written by David Benioff and D.B. Weiss
> 
> please follow me on my Tumblr if you're interested in rants, gifs, and all things jonsa

**Author's Note:**

> follow me on Tumblr: [thkingslayer ](https://thkingslayer.tumblr.com)


End file.
